


Timeless

by cinnamont



Category: Glee, Outlander (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Historical, Arranged Marriage, Crossover, First Time, M/M, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-07
Updated: 2018-09-07
Packaged: 2019-07-07 22:35:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 37,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15917646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cinnamont/pseuds/cinnamont
Summary: Despondent from constant bullying at school, Kurt goes on a summer vacation to Scotland and is whisked through time to find a love that is timeless.





	1. Standing Stones

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dblmalfunction](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dblmalfunction/gifts).



> Klaine Fic Gift Exchange 2018  
> Written for @dblmalfunction who prompted an Outlander Crossover. I hope you enjoy this. And thanks to @jackabelle73 for the wonderful beta assist!!! Check out her epic multi-chapter fic Between the Moon and New York City. Also many thanks to slayediest for organizing this exchange so all of us have new klaine fics to read!
> 
> Before writing this, the only thing I knew about Outlander was that a married nurse from WW2 went back in time and had a romance with a Scotsman. I binge-watched the first season of the TV series so it serves as the basis for this fic. Ordinarily I avoid writing for a fandom I know so little about, but I love historicals and this was a fun way to introduce myself to the Outlander story, exploring it through the lens of my favorite otp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story begins at the end of Kurt’s junior year. Kurt got over his crush on Finn and never tried to get Burt and Carole together, so it is just the two of them.

> People disappear all the time. Young girls run away from home. Children stray from their parents and are never seen again. Housewives take the grocery money and a taxi to the train station. Most are found, eventually. Disappearances, after all, have explanations. Usually.

## Lima, Ohio, 2011

"See you next year, Lady!"

The sneering words were quickly followed by pain bursting across his skull as Kurt's head forcefully impacted with the metal lockers. He hissed as his fingers gingerly touched his throbbing forehead. Kurt didn't bother to look. He knew it was Azimio who gave him that parting shot. And to think just a second ago, Kurt was actually feeling almost happy.

He'd cleared out the last of his personal belongings, a change of clothes. All the textbooks had been returned, notebooks tossed into the recycling bin. He closed the door on the empty locker. Last day. A whole glorious summer without knuckle-dragging Neanderthal jocks. But this latest locker check only reminded Kurt — painfully — that he still had another year of hell to survive. And he was tired.

Kurt could feel his Dad's eyes on him all through dinner. He knew something was off. Kurt went through the motions of the day like he was on remote control, doing the things he was supposed to be doing, speaking words when words were spoken to him. He hadn't realized Burt had gotten up from the table until two packets were dropped next to his dinner plate. Kurt looked up in surprise.

"What do you say we get out of Ohio?" Burt announced.

Kurt's eyes drifted down to the packets. Slowly he opened one. Inside was a plane ticket… to Scotland.

***

One year while riding a roller coaster at the state fair, when the car tipped over the peak and plummeted straight down, Kurt's body lifted slightly out of his seat in a split second of zero gravity. It felt like his heart dislodged from its place inside his chest and flew up into his throat.

That was the last thought Kurt's mind latched onto as it tried to make sense of the sensation of the earth falling away from beneath his feet, while tilting and spinning at the same time, just before he blacked out.

***

Little bits of information began to seep into Kurt's mind. There was a chill in the air. Had he fallen asleep without pulling the blanket over himself? He was lying down… but the mattress was lumpy… and smelled of grass! A weak light pressed against his eyelids. Scrunching up his face, Kurt cracked open his eyes, blinking several times but all he saw was gray. As his vision began to focus once again, he realized that he was staring up at an overcast sky. No, it was more than that. A fog blurred and shrouded the world in a white-grayish mist, cool and damp. Or was that the dew on the grass? Kurt tried to sit up but his body was heavy and sore; he groaned at the effort.

It was all coming back to him now. He was in Scotland, Inverness to be precise. It had been his idea to rent a room from Airbnb. Mrs. Baird was a pleasant woman in her 50s, happy to share local gossip and a decent enough cook for the comfort-food meals she made. Last night though, Kurt hadn't been able to sleep and finally got up to sneak down to the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea or maybe some warm milk. That's when he caught proper Mrs. Baird in the kitchen, wearing a diaphanous gown of thin gauzy layers and not much else. She pulled on a coat while a half dozen women and girls grouped together with similar dresses peeking out at the hems of their coats. Kurt recognized a couple of them from the town. They whispered and laughed quietly, clearly trying not to make noise. What in the world were they up to at this hour?

It was that curiosity that compelled Kurt to follow them out into the night in nothing more than his pj bottoms, plain cotton t-shirt and soft leather slippers. Mrs. Baird's home was on the outskirts of the city and the women took a trail that led through the woods and up a hill. Several minutes into this trek, Kurt was regretting his impulsive decision and certainly regretting not having a coat and sturdier shoes. He should have been concerned about getting lost should he lose sight of the women, but he was pretty sure he knew where they were going... Craigh na Dun, a circle of standing stones, much smaller than the famous Stonehenge. He and Burt had visited it earlier in their trip and according to their guide book, England and Scotland had several lesser known standing stones scattered about, relics of a by-gone era, passing through time like silent witnesses to the human drama that unfolded around them.

If only they could talk, Kurt had thought while Burt recited facts from the guide book. What stories they could tell.

Kurt had wrapped his arms around himself in a fairly useless effort to fend off the cold night air by the time the women arrived at the circle of gray stone slabs. Kurt circled around the outside looking for a place to watch unseen. He realized now that the women weren't carrying flashlights – torches, Kurt corrected himself of the British word – actually they were torches or meant to be, would have been torches lit with fire long ago, but were now battery-operated lanterns at the end of short sticks. Wise precaution. It _would_ be pretty embarrassing if you inadvertently started a fire while cos-playing druids at a historical landmark.

The women shed their coats and took up their glowing torches and positioned themselves within the stone circle. In their dresses and veils they looked like a cross between nymphs and Maid Marion from Robin Hood or maybe nuns if their habits were all white, or maybe all these things weren't so very different from each other after all. It should have been ridiculous as they glided through their choreographed dance of graceful arms and twirling around each other, but was it any more so than what Glee had done for Gaga Week?

As the lights of each of the women interwove among the ancient stones, the hairs on the back of Kurt's neck rose and it wasn't from the cold. When had the beating of his heart began to sound like the beating of drums? Out of the darkness came a song foreign and old sounding, but yet somehow distantly familiar calling out to some part of ourselves buried deep within us but paved over by modern civilization. In that moment it was easy to imagine women linked throughout time coming to this place to perform these rites generation after generation paying homage to something timeless and unchangeable… and powerful.

Kurt was held spellbound as the rays of the rising sun lit the early morning mist and bathed the women and stone in growing warmth. And then suddenly it was over. The women held their torches up to the center stone in final tribute. Kurt snapped out of the spell when the women switched off their lights and gathered up their coats, chattering and laughing among one another. Kurt's heart still pounded in his chest.

A little belatedly, he realized that he too needed to return to Mrs. Baird's house before his father woke and found him missing. Now that the women were gone from sight, Kurt decided secrecy wasn't necessary and he scrambled up the hill and into the stone circle. He planned to leave in the direction of the women and follow the trail back, but he was hit by the memory of his mother that was so abrupt he inhaled sharply. And there it was… her perfume! It was the strongest sense-memory he had of her as a little boy's memory blurred like an aging photograph, not quite able to recall the exact features of her face or color of her hair. Even her voice, singing to him lost its tone. But her perfume, that remained fixed in his mind along with the memory of standing at her dresser, doing up her hair, putting on her makeup, and dabbing on her favorite perfume. At five years old, he had gotten into the dresser drawer and opened the bottle and spilt it all over everything in that drawer. It soaked into the wood where its scent still lingered.

He turned in the direction where the scent was the strongest and found himself staring at the center stone. Down at its base was a clump of little blue flowers. Drawn to it, Kurt knelt down and fingered the delicate petals. Overwhelming sorrow engulfed him and the flowers blurred with unshed tears in his eyes. He _missed_ her so much! Like a hollow space in his soul. As much as he loved his dad and he knew that he loved Kurt back… as much as they had learned how to connect to each other, slowly and sometimes painfully… there was still a love that Kurt was missing and left him feeling so utterly alone. It left him gasping and rubbing at the ache in his chest. He wanted that so badly that he yearned for it with every fiber of his being. It was like a buzzing in his head. Kneeling there before those flowers and unyielding stone propelled Kurt back to that sad, lonely eight-year-old boy placing flowers at his mother's grave-stone and wanting nothing more than to sit down there and never leave, consumed in his grief. But the strong hand of his father reached down to him, silently telling him that he could not. He had to get up, keep moving, keep living. There was someone who still loved him, whose hand would always be there for him. Little Kurt put his hand in his father's and let him draw him up.

As Kurt made himself rise now, his hand instinctively reached out but this time it touched rough-smooth stone. The buzz that had been a faint hum in the back of his mind grew louder as if coming from the stone itself, just as the world fell away.


	2. On the Run

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "ken" is the Scottish way of saying "understand" or "know"

## Craigh na Dun, Scotland

Kurt was turned around.

Completely disoriented, he couldn't find the trail that was well marked for the tourists. And the trees and brush… he didn't remember them being this thick and dense. He couldn't even tell what time of day it was. The light was weak and diffused in the fog that hid the sky and sun. It could be early morning or late afternoon, for all Kurt knew. The white mist that veiled the trees made the world feel ghost-like, firing his imagination. He could almost believe fairies roamed these woods, and if he wasn't careful, he might stumble into one.

Ridiculous, he chided himself. He was far more likely to get himself hopelessly lost. What he should do is backtrack to the stones and wait for the sun to burn away the mist so he could find the trail again. It would be so embarrassing if his father woke to find him missing and called the police in his worry and have half the county out looking for the lost American tourist.

The sharp bang caused Kurt to almost jump out of his own skin. He spun around in a circle, trying to determine the direction of the sound, and stared open-mouthed. A distance away two, no three, men were running through the trees. He ought to be relieved but what in the world were they wearing? They looked like Redcoats from a period drama: the red coats of the British military and black tricorne hats. Kurt was half-way to convincing himself he imagined it when another bang rang out from the opposite direction. Three more men in period uniforms were running by. They were carrying rifles, Kurt was sure of it.

Had he wandered into a movie location? Or did the locals here do reenactments? Southern states were known for recreating Civil War battles, did the Scots have their own version? Kurt was still standing there, gaping in disbelief, when one of the soldiers saw him. He raised his rifle and fired at him. Kurt flinched as pieces of bark from the tree next to him exploded from the bullet's impact.

Holy shit, he _fired_ at him! He fired a real bullet at him and it had just missed his head! Before Kurt's mind could catch up to what was happening, he was running. In his panic, he tripped and fell but was back up on his feet and running blindly, with no idea where he was going, just away, branches lashing at his face and arms. The shouts of men and the exchange of gun shots spurred Kurt on.

He burst into a clearing and cried out as a horse seemingly came out of nowhere. Kurt lost his footing on the uneven ground fell face first into the mud.

The horse snorted and reared up to avoid trampling him. It too lost its footing, and the horse and its rider went down. The man in the red military coat, cried out as the horse landed on his leg. Panicked and disoriented the horse writhed on the ground, its legs flailing; the man cursing.

Then the man's eyes locked with Kurt's. The only thing that Kurt's mind registered was the man was square-jawed and had brown hair that was long enough to be pulled back and tied. He was not struck dumb as Kurt was, his eyes raked down his body. Shock was quickly followed by fury over his face.

"Jacobite!" he sneered.

The next thing Kurt knew was the man was leveling a pistol at him, the muzzle far too long to be a modern gun. It look like a dueling pistol, something Kurt had only seen in movies.

Fortunately for Kurt's sake, the horse chose that moment to rock in an effort to get to its feet, causing the man to fire wildly off target and cry out in pain as the horse's full weight rolled over his trapped leg.

Kurt didn't wait to find out what would happen next. He scrambled to his feet and dashed back into the trees for their cover. He hoped against hope to get lost in them. Kurt didn't get far when a hand clamped onto his arm and yanked him behind a tree. Before he could scream, a hand closed over his mouth. He didn't know who it was that grabbed him, and didn't care. He fought to break free of the hold. A blow to his skull turned the world black.

***

When Kurt came to, he woke to the same nightmare and was slumped over a horse, an arm around his middle keeping him from falling off even at this sedate walk. It was lighter now, the sky still overcast but the mist cleared away enough to see they were approaching a lonely little stone cottage with a thatch roof and smoke rising from the chimney. Off to the side a small group of horses were grazing in the tall grass around a large gnarled tree. No where was there even a hint of being anywhere near a city the size of Inverness.

And as much as Kurt wanted to believe that none of this could be real, the body odor reeking off the man behind him… not even an entire year in the boy's locker room prepared Kurt for it. No, this was real and somehow he had to escape.

The man drew up his horse before the cottage and dismounted. Kurt expected to be roughly dragged down. While the hand that tugged on his arm was firm, it was not as brutal as it could have been. When Kurt's feet touched the ground, his legs turned to jelly and buckled beneath him. The man caught Kurt and steadied him until his shaky legs could support him again. Kurt flushed at the indignity of the situation.

He got his first look at his kidnapper. Angry Mountain Man was his immediate impression. He had a heavy unkempt mountain-man-beard and his thick brows were drawn together in a permanent scowl. He kept a hand on Kurt's shoulder as he directed him through the door of the cottage, less as a steadying help and more of a grip on his shirt in case he tried to bolt. The hand fell away as soon as they were inside. There was no need for it now; there were about a dozen men, all staring at him. Some rose at his entrance. He was trapped.

Kurt's pride took over as it did in the school hallways when he could feel all the eyes on him, judging him, classifying him as a freak, a fag, someone who didn't belong. Kurt raised his chin and refused to show fear. Something in the room, in the very air changed, as the bearded men looked him over. A strange tension and uncertainty seem to grip these men, big and rough and unclean. Kurt didn't know what to make of it.

A man questioned Angry Mountain Man, who pulled off his knit cap from his dark brown hair, stringy from damp and sweat. He stepped over to an open cook fire to warm himself. The words had the Scottish bur to them but Kurt couldn't pick out any of the words. They weren't speaking English; Gaelic, he guessed. Nearly all were wearing plaid kilts, unusual even for Scots. An occasion man in Inverness might be seen in one, but rarely more than that. Once again, Kurt had to wonder if he had intruded on an historical society, a _really_ hard-core historical society.

There were three men sitting before a lit fire place with a couple more standing nearby. One of the men, broad-shouldered, bald but with a full, graying beard, stood and walked straight up to Kurt.

"Are ye a Stuart?" he demanded in English.

A steward? Kurt couldn't hide his confusion. Did they think he was some kind of waiter? He was feeling more and more like Alice down the rabbit hole; nothing was making sense. "I'm American."

The men murmured among one another. The man before Kurt, their leader he was pretty sure, narrowed his eyes. "Ye mean the colonies in the Americas?"

Colonies?! Kurt knew Brits sometimes liked to tweak Americans by still referring to them as colonial property, but this wasn't a joke. Against all reason, Kurt was getting the sinking feeling that this wasn't a game or make-believe. "Yes," he played along.

This answer only set off fresh murmurs. Finally one of them burst out, "Is he Charlie?"

"Och, I knocked him over the head," Angry Mountain Man confided, sounding aghast.

"What? No! My name is Kurt," he insisted.

"He canna be Charlie," Graybeard declared. "He's no but a lad. Charlie is three and twenty if he's a year."

"Weel, there ye are, Murtagh, you only crowned the Duke of York," one of the men jibed and several of the men chuckled. Murtagh, Angry Mountain Man, did not look appeased by this.

"Are you? Are you Henry?" Graybeard demanded again.

"I told you my name is Kurt!" His anger was beginning to override any sense of discretion and Kurt jutted out his chin defiantly. "I am from… the colonies."

"He's got the airs of a Royal," someone muttered.

But Graybeard would not be put off. "If ye no a Stuart, then you'll be telling us why yer wearin' their plaid!"

Graybeard jabbed a finger at Kurt and he followed the pointed finger down to his pajama bottoms. The plaid! His pj's were a red plaid pattern. Burt had read this from the guide book: the Scottish clans all had their own plaid patterns and colors. That night when Kurt dressed for bed, he decided to look up his pj's pattern to see if it matched any one… and it had. The Stuarts! Good God, they thought he was from the royal house because why else would he be wearing their tartan colors? He needed a good lie.

"I'm not," Kurt insisted. "I… I bo-- made these from cloth I bought. I didn't know about Scots and their tartans. I just liked the colors." Well, that last part was at least true.

Graybeard glared at him, clearly not buying his explanation.

"Yer all dafted," came a voice by the fire. He was the youngest of the group, still a teenager. He sat hunched over on a wooden stool, his words strained through gritted teeth. "If Bonnie Prince Charlie or any of his family were in Scotland, they wouldna wear their colors for all the world to see. They'd be hung straight away. He's tellin' the truth. He's from the colonies where they didna ken better than to wear the royal plaid."

Bonnie Prince Charlie?! Kurt heard that name before – oh why didn't he pay more attention in history? He was a pretender to the throne. The Scots fought for him and it ended in disaster at the Battle of Culloden and Bonnie Prince Charlie had escaped by dressing as a woman. And they think he's me? Or the Duke of York? Did Charlie have a brother? A brother named Henry? Kurt didn't know.

The men didn't seem to know what to make of the situation either and looked to Graybeard to decide. His eyes never wavered from Kurt. "Kurt, ye say."

"Yes, Kurt Hummel," he repeated more firmly.

"And you said you found him?" Graybeard asked, but this time not to Kurt.

"Aye," Murtagh answered. "He was havin' a wee bit of a misunderstanding with a certain Captain of dragoons with whom we are acquainted." When Graybeard cocked his head, Murtagh continued, "He came on the Captain's horse sudden like, and the horse went down and him with it. The Captain thanked him by firing on him."

There was another round of laughter.

Graybeard's eyes slid back to Kurt. "Ye didna appear to have any holes in ye."

Something in Kurt just could not back down in front of these men even though Kurt knew it was a bad idea to provoke them. His chin lifted. "He missed."

Graybeard huffed out a breath. "We'll puzzle it out later. We've got a good distance to go tonight. And we must do something about Bláan first."

He turned away from Kurt and returned to the fire place and the boy who sat hunched there. Apparently done with Kurt, at least for now, the men turned their attention away. And that was fine with Kurt, who let out a shaky breath.

The men switched back to Gaelic. Kurt glanced toward the door. Murtagh must have guessed his thought and positioned himself between him and the only way out. Kurt dropped his eyes to the ground. He just had to wait, surely a moment would come.

"Here, lad," one of the men said and he handed a small round flask to the boy at the fire.

Two men moved to stand behind the boy while he drank. He panted heavily and passed the flask to a white-haired old man sitting opposite him. The boy braced himself, obviously in pain as the men behind took hold of him. A third man stepped forward to take the right arm that was cradled in front of him.

Kurt suddenly realized what they meant to do. The boy's shoulder was dislocated and they were about to force the joint back in.

"Stop!" Kurt commanded. "You're going to break his arm if you do it like that!"

He spoke before thinking, alarmed at the boy's pain and how they were about to make it worse. Kurt had stepped automatically forward but stopped short when one of the men drew a long-bladed knife. Why hadn't he just kept his mouth shut?

Graybeard regarded Kurt. "Ye know a better way?"

"You have to get the bone of the upper arm in the right position before pushing the joint back in," Kurt explained.

"Are ye a physician, then?" Graybeard asked.

"No," Kurt answered truthfully, but he had taken advanced first aid training after Burt's heart attack. He took it for CPR but it had covered dislocated joints too.

"All right then," Graybeard said and stepped aside.

Kurt gulped. "I-I haven't done it myself. I only saw it done." And by 'saw it done', he meant he watched a video once. Why hadn't he kept his mouth shut?

"Show us what ye saw," Graybeard said. He nodded his head toward the injured boy.

Kurt turned to look at him. The boy lifted his head to look back. He had a mop of unruly black curls. His face was young, maybe the same age as him. His wide eyes were fringed with thick lashes, full of pain and questioning curiosity. Gathering his courage, Kurt reached down for the right arm. The boy winced before he even touched him and clenched his jaw, bracing himself for the pain.

"Hold him steady," Kurt told the men behind the boy, and they did as he bade.

Kurt looked into the boy's eyes. He couldn't tell their color, they looked yellow in the firelight, but that had to be a trick of light. Kurt drew in a breath and nodded at him. The boy drew in his own breath and determined to bear what was to come. It was strange, they'd never met till now. He was one of this group who were holding him hostage, yet they were connected in this. Kurt was silently asking him to trust, him even though he barely knew what he was doing, but the boy agreed to give it to him.

Kurt was aware that one of the men off to the side was scrunching up his face and squirming in sympathy pain. He ignored him and lifted the boy's arm, bending it at the elbow. The boy let out a small cry before clamping his lips shut.

"This is the worst part," Kurt assured him and the boy nodded. Again, his eyes seemed to say 'I trust you.'

As Kurt rotated the arm, Kurt pushed joint in at the shoulder. With a sick little sound, the arm slipped back into position. The boy panted and exclaimed something in Gaelic. He looked down at his arm and then up at Kurt, awe in his eyes. "It doesn't hurt anymore!"

"It will," Kurt corrected him. "For a few days anyway. I need a sling." Kurt looked around and stopped at a brown-bearded man. "You! Get me a long piece of cloth or a belt."

" 'Get me,' he says. Do ye hear that, lads? Bleedin' Prince of Wales," he scoffed.

"Give him yer belt, Angus," Graybeard commanded. And when Angus stared questioningly at him, Graybeard gave him a curt nod. Clearly the man didn't like it but did as he was told.

"You learned how to do this in the colonies?" the boy asked Kurt.

Kurt hesitated. How much should he divulge? "My... father was sick for a time. I learned a few things from the doctor who took care of him."

Kurt position the arm in front of the boy's chest, took the offered belt and wrapped it around his torso so it would hold his arm in place and fastened the buckle at his back. "You need to keep the arm stationary, don't move it, for two or three days." Kurt recalled something about warm compresses but where would he get that in a place like this? He left that part out. "How does that feel?"

The boy looked up at Kurt again, gratitude in his expression. "Better. Thank ye."

Kurt felt a flutter in his chest that he couldn't explain, so he just nodded.

"Can you ride?" Graybeard broke into their moment.

"Aye," the boy responded.

"Good. We're leaving," announced Graybeard. He tossed some piece of clothing at the boy which Kurt could only assume was a coat, after all he was only wearing a torn shirt and his kilt.

It was full night by the time the group exited the cottage. Worse, it was raining.

"Where is Inverness?" Kurt wondered aloud.

"You're looking straight at it," the boy replied.

In the darkness, Kurt could barely make out a valley in the distance. That was Inverness? Not a single light lit the night, yet that was the valley where the city lay. Though it defied all reason, Kurt knew deep inside, he was not in the 21st century.

He was still staring out into the darkness when Graybeard came out of the cottage and said unceremoniously, "Get yerself up."

He grabbed Kurt by the arm and dragged him over to the horse that Blaine had just mounted. Now that they were convinced that Kurt was not royalty, he was an unwanted burden. "You be sure to stay close to the rest of us. And should ye try anythin' else, I shall slit your throat for you," he warned. "Gimme your foot."

Graybeard took Kurt's foot and hoisted him up so he found himself once again on a horse, only now in a pelting rain that was quickly soaking his t-shirt. The boy behind him was squirming around.

"What are you doing?" Kurt snapped peevishly. "I told you to keep your arm still."

"I'm getting my plaid loose to cover ye," he answered matter-of-factly. "You're shivering."

He was freezing, but damned if he was going to admit it. "Thank you but I'm fine!"

But he wasn't fooling anyone, because the boy replied, "You're shaking so hard it's making _my_ teeth rattle. The plaid will keep us both warm, but I canna do it one-handed. Can ye reach?"

Kurt gritted his teeth and reached around and caught hold of the plaid cloth that the boy was struggling with. He pulled at it until it covered him. Then he reached around the other side to do the same. The boy grunted slightly as he tugged on the cloth over the boy's injured shoulder. It took a little doing but they finally settled themselves. Kurt was cold and miserable wrapped in a wet plaid but there was warmth at his back where the boy was pressed up against him. He supposed the boy was trying to be kind, but he wasn't in the mood for it. Why couldn't they let him go? What did they want?

"We don't want you to freeze before sun-up," the boy joked lightly.

"Sun-up?!" Kurt gasped. "We're going to be riding all night?"

"All night, and the next one too, I reckon," the boy said. "Fine time of year for a ride, though."

Kurt snorted.

 


	3. Cocknammon Rock

 

Just as the boy said they would, they rode on through the night. Not ten minutes had gone by before Kurt gave up on the notion he could memorize the direction and turns they took so he could find his way back. It was pointless in the dart with no road signs or buildings to mark the path. So he gave up and wallowed in his misery, his wetness, the growing soreness in his legs and back. Eventually the rocking of the horse's gait lulled him into dozing, occasionally waking and nodding off again. At some point the rain stopped yet they rode on. Light returned to signal a new day and still they rode on. Kurt sensed that the horses and riders were tiring but they rode on.

Kurt leaned back against the boy. Their bodies had established a rhythm that gently rolled with the horse's pace. There was a kind of rough beauty to Scotland's wilderness, Kurt thought idly. Nothing like the neatly divided, well-tended farmlands of England or its carefully cultivated gardens. Everything grew where it wanted here, no attempt to bend it to man's will, to make it pretty. Scrubby grass and brush covered uneven ground, trees sturdy and stubborn populated the hills as they pleased. Rising up over the tree tops was a gray craggy mountain ridge, jagged toothed, like they thrust up and split the earth and stabbed at the sky.

Kurt frowned. "I've seen that."

He didn't know he said that aloud until the boy responded. "Been through here before, have ye?"

Before? Yes, a few days ago for Kurt, but how many years from now was he sitting in the passenger seat while his dad drove and recited facts from his guide book? Burt was trying so hard to make this summer a good one, and introduce a bit of his mother's family history. All Kurt did was sullenly stare out the window, preoccupied with how he was going to survive another year of hell.

_"Hey, bud," Burt pointed at a ridge of jagged rocks. "Look at that! They say the British troops used to use that place for ambushes."_

The land was more heavily forested now, but there no mistaking it. It was the same ridge. Were there soldiers lying in wait? Should he say something? Would they help him? The last one he met shot at him. He was riding with a group of Scots, wearing Scottish plaid. Lord, they would think he was one of them and how would he convince them he wasn't before he was shot again?

"Yes," Kurt said at last. "Those rocks."

The boy said something in Gaelic. Kurt only shook his head, not understanding. "Cocknammon Rock," he explained.

"The soldiers– the Redcoats, they use it for ambushes."

The dark-haired boy glanced about them. "It's a bonny place for an ambush, right enough."

The boy kicked his heels into the horse's sides to spur the horse to pick up his pace. "Dougal." The boy pulled up along side Graybeard. "Dougal!"

What he said next was in Gaelic. When Graybeard answered, Kurt was pretty sure he was asking if he believed Kurt and he answered in the affirmative.

Graybeard leaned toward them, pinning Kurt with a glare. "Now, you'll be telling me exactly how and why you come to know there's an ambush up ahead."

So much for gratitude, Kurt thought bitterly. "I don't know." And how did he explain how he knew. It's in the history books. "I heard it… in the village."

His answer seemed to anger Graybeard, but he didn't reply. Instead he looked about them, clearly thinking about their next move. If he was hoping to hear any telltale movement in the trees, all there was was the running water nearby and the wind through the branches. He made a decision anyway. He waved a hand to his men.

The next thing Kurt knew, he was unceremoniously dumped to the ground. He wanted to curse at the boy but his breath was knocked out of him. He thought he heard a voice telling him to hide himself. The horses were galloping past him. He scrambled to take refuge in the bushes. There it was—the first gun shot! He had been right! Now was the clashing of metal swords.

For the second time in two days, Kurt was terrified for his life. Would the soldiers kill the men? And why did he care? They kidnapped him. What was he waiting for? This was his time!

Kurt was on his feet running away from the direction of the battle. Once again, he had no idea where he was going, but maybe if he didn't know where he was neither would anyone else. He came to a stream, and paused to catch his breath while he tried to decide where to go next. He followed the stream until the brush became too thick, then he clambered up an incline only for the boy on his horse to pull up in front of him.

"Lost yer way?" he called down to him.

Dammit! How did he find him? The boy dismounted with a word to the horse that had to be something like "stay." He came at Kurt with his sword drawn. And that should have been the only thing Kurt cared about but instead the words out of his mouth were: "You're using your arm!"

Indeed, the boy carried the sword in his right arm that was no longer belted to his chest. His face was splattered with blood and his shirt at the shoulder was soaked. "You're bleeding!" Kurt blurted, hating himself for caring.

"This lot isn't my blood. Not much of anyway," he said, far too casually. His eyes were on Kurt.

He'd come to take him back. Kurt made to run but the boy was too quick and cut him off.

"Dougal and the others will be waiting further upstream," he told Kurt. "We should go."

"Why?" Kurt cried. "I helped you! You could tell them you couldn't find me."

"I canna do that."

"Why not?" Kurt pressed. "I'm nothing to you. I don't have any money, if that's what you're hoping for. I-I don't have any family here. No one is going to pay for a ransom. Please."

Kurt thought he saw pity in the dark-haired boy's eyes. "If it were just me," he started. "I canna go against Dougal. He's my uncle, ye ken?"

"Why does _he_ care?" Kurt demanded.

"If I let you go, the Redcoats could find you. You could tell them about us."

Kurt sighed. "I swear I won't."

The boy shook his head. "You willna have a choice and you'll like their manner of askin' even less."

"I won't go with you!" Kurt yelled, his temper fraying in frustration.

"Yes, ye are!" the boy snapped back and when Kurt tried to make a move, he found himself confronted with the sword's blade.

"What are you going to do? Cut my throat!"

The boy softened then. "No… but if you make me chase you, I'll give ye a rap on the head and drag you back. Do ye want me to do that?"

Kurt glared hatred at him. The boy was close and handsome. _What an idiotic thought_ , Kurt raged at himself for noticing but he was, even with his hair unwashed and bedraggled all around his face. He had heavy brows and high cheeks, full lips and a square strong jaw. He was actually a couple inches shorter than him. And he was injured. Shouldn't he be able to outrun him? Except Kurt was in slippers and gym was his worst class. Mercedes could probably outrun him. And this boy was compact with muscles.

Seriously, what was wrong with him? A boy showed a minor act of kindness before tossing him into a dumpster and he crushed on him for half a semester. And now this guy was pointing a sword at him which he probably just used to kill someone and what was Kurt's dumb ass thinking? _Oooh, look, he's cute_.

"Well?" the boy prompted when he hadn't answered.

Kurt was furious with himself. "No!" he gritted out.

"I suppose that means you're coming with me."

When the boy reached out a hand to take his arm, Kurt yanked it away. He put his nose in the air and marched past him to the horse. Damned if he'd give him the satisfaction. He missed the boy's smile of admiration.

Back on the horse with Kurt riding in front of him, he hissed as the horse's gait jolting his shoulder. "Serves you right," Kurt snapped.

"Well, it wasn't much of a choice," he grunted. "If I'd not moved my shoulder, I'd never have moved anything else ever again."

Up ahead, the other men were waiting on their horses.

By way of greeting the boy boasted, "I can handle a single Redcoat with one hand, maybe even two Redcoats. But not three. Besides ye can fix it for me again when we get where we're going."

"Don't bet on it," Kurt hissed, still fuming.

They reached Graybeard – what had he called him? Dougal. His uncle. Sitting atop his horse like he was a prince. The heavyset man next to him walked his horse forward. "Ha, here's to you, lad. For tipping us to the villains in the rocks and giving us a wee bit o' fun!" He lifted a flask and drank a toast while the others laughed. He handed the flask to the boy.

He drank from it then held it out for Kurt. He glared at him. "Have a wee nip," the boy cajoled. "It willna fill your belly, but it will make ye forget you're hungry."

That reminded Kurt that he hadn't eaten in two days. Time had taken on a cruel mockery. Two days and how many years? Still, there was no denying the hollow ache in his stomach. Kurt took the flask of stitched leather, small and round like a camping canteen. He held it to his parched lips and drank. As soon as the liquid hit the back of his mouth, it burned, and Kurt began to sputter, much to everyone's amusement. Everyone's but Dougal's. He just eyed Kurt as he nudged his horse forward to lead them out. Despite tipping them off it was clear that Dougal didn't trust Kurt, trusted him even less now.

They rode on through the night and well into the next day before they finally arrived at their destination. Kurt knew it. Castle Leoch. He had been there, here, four days ago, only then it had been a ruin. The roof had been gone, much of the upper stories crumbled away and overgrown with weeds, yet now it stood whole and intact. It was a fortress of stone, a round tower at one end of the building, topped with a parapet and a flag. Smoke rose from its chimneys.

" _Home to the Laird of the Clan MacKenzie_ ," his dad's voice echoed in his head. What would he think of it now? Kurt wondered. It still looked old, weather-beaten, aged, parts of the wall green with vines. It looked like it had already fended off many a siege but it didn't look beaten down; it was defiant, ready to stand against many more battles. But how many more could that really be, when its history had already been written?

Was this to be Kurt's history too now? His future? If he didn't find some way to get back to his present?


	4. Castle Leoch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes. I am deviating a bit from a key element from the Outlander books & show.
> 
> "auld" is Scottish Gaelic for "old." So Auld Alec is Old Alec, used sometimes to reference a person's age or to distinguish between two people with the same name, implying there could be a Young Alec.

## Castle Leoch, Scotland

Kurt's third dismount from a horse was at least more dignified than the first two. His legs were rubbery but he managed to keep them under himself this time. He felt some margin of gratification to see that his "escorts" also showed signs of fatigue, moving stiffly and stretching out sore muscles.

They had passed through a wide arched door built into the castle's outer wall into a courtyard of trodden mud. When Kurt visited with Burt, it was empty and overrun with weeds. The walls were whole and complete now but stained with age and use. The windows were no longer vacant holes but fitted with glass. And everywhere was a hive of activity. To one side was a wide stone well supplying the castle with water. There were fenced animal pens and thatched structures and people gathered about. A couple of seated women gossiped as they wove baskets. Men chatted while warming their hands at a lit brazier. Mixed in with the idle talk and horse's hooves in mud was the clanging of metal, a blacksmith at work.

"Dougal, you're back early," greeted an old man by look of his white beard, but fit and wiry. He wore his tartan slung over one shoulder of a leather coat and a belt with several pouches and tools attached to it. Kurt would later learn his name was Auld Alec, the stable master. "We hadna thought to see ye before the Gatherin'."

"Aye, well, we've had some luck, some good," Dougal slapped Auld Alec on the arm in congenial manner, then turned his head to side-eye Kurt. "Some bad."

Dougal walked off like he had somewhere to go so Auld Alec turned his attention to the next man in the party. "Rupert, ye great fat fart, what have you done to my Peggy?"

Rupert was a great rotund man built like a line-backer that Kurt often saw at Dougal's side. On the journey here he classified Rupert as a close friend or trusted lieutenant. If Kurt was ever to get back to the standing stones, he was going to need help. He'd never be able to navigate the way on his own so he set himself the task of learning who each of these people were and how he might convince them to get him to Inverness. Rupert rolled his eyes in a manner that suggested he was often scolded by this old man.

"Did I not tell you to tighten her girth?" Auld Alec nagged.

Rupert sighed. "Let me be, ye old rat. I been riding all night and I don't need you squalling in my ear."

Auld Alec lifted the front leg of Rupert's horse—Peggy—to examine the underside of her hoof. "Did ye never even look at her hooves? You canna expect any beast to carry around something that weighs as much as you, without taking care of the poor creature's feet."

Kurt suspected that wouldn't have mattered how well Rupert tended the horse. Auld Alec was likely the kind of person who would find fault whatever you did and let you know it.

"Like a cow riding a mouse," Angus jibed.

"Shut yer hole," Rupert shot back but there was no animosity in their words. This was the way they treated each other, constantly ribbing one another. It was just Kurt's luck he landed in a time populated exclusively by high school jocks.

A woman's voice called out but Kurt couldn't make out the word. More Gaelic? The woman that approached was all rounded warmth and smiles. She lifted up a long apron worn over a full-length skirt. Knitted fingerless gloves were as long as a lady's evening gloves and a white cap crowned her head.

"Rupert, m'dear! How good to see ye!" She wrapped him up in an enthusiastic hug and kiss to the cheek. Was she his mother?

To everyone else she said, "Ye'll all be needing breakfast, I reckon. Plenty in the kitchen. Away in, and feed yerselves."

The men gratefully headed off. Watching the round mother hen of a woman bossing the men, Kurt was forcefully reminded of Lady Cluck, Maid Marion's lady-in-waiting from Robin Hood, Scottish bur of rolling the R's and all.

"Murtagh, you look and smell like a rat that's been dragged through sheep dung." She scrunched up her face at Kurt's original kidnapper.

Far from being insulted, the dour man broke into a grin. "Gi' us a kiss, then."

"No, no!" Lady Cluck squealed and then laughed heartily as Murtagh grabbed her up and kissed her cheek before heading off to the kitchen.

Her laughter died, though, when she caught sight of Kurt standing awkwardly in the mud. His t-shirt was stained and torn in places. It had been soaked through and then dried stiff and scratchy. Same with his pajama bottoms. His head must be a wreck; he could feel his hair plastered down from the rain and sticking up where it was starting to dry.

"And what do we have here?" All merriment was gone from her rounded face as she ambled over to Kurt. Her expression was one that he was becoming all too familiar with, mistrust and suspicion. Outsider.

The boy had not run off to the kitchen with the others. He was still tending to his horse.

"Kurt Hummel, Mistress Fitzgibbons. Kurt is from the British colonies across the Atlantic," he made the introductions. "Murtagh found him and Dougal said we must bring him along with us, so…"

"So." Lady Cluck—Mrs. Fitzgibbons repeated, as if that explained everything. What Dougal decided, everyone did. That was how it worked here. And Dougal didn't like Kurt. What was he to do?

"Well." The matronly woman looked Kurt over from top to bottom and Kurt raised his chin, refusing to be made to feel like the unwanted guest. "Kurt," she slurred out his name.

Kurt nodded. Royal airs, one of the men had accused him earlier. He did his best to put them on again. If he was going to be a prisoner, then let him be Mary Queen of Scots… but without the beheading.

The boy gave her a knowing look and she took charge. "Come with me. We shall find you something to eat, something to wear…" She gave his strange clothes a disapproving look, "that's a bit more… Well, a bit more."

Kurt wanted nothing more than to eat, bathe, and get warm again, but the words out of his mouth were: "What about him?"

The boy took off a bag from his horse and slung it over his good shoulder. "I can fend for myself."

"No, you're hurt," Kurt contradicted him. Then to Mrs. Fitzgibbons, he explained, "He dislocated his shoulder, probably pulled the muscles there. His shoulder needs to be re-wrapped."

"I'll be fine," he said, and started to turn away.

"No, you won't!" Kurt called after him imperiously. "He needs clean bandages," he told the woman. "He can't tie them himself, one-handed. And he has a sword cut that needs to be cleaned before it becomes infected."

"A scratch, nothing more," the boy protested.

The woman watched Kurt, measuring him up. "Do you mean to say you know what to do for that?"

"I'm not a doctor," Kurt amended. "Is there one here?"

"Are ye a charmer, then?" she asked, as if she hadn't heard what he just said. "A Beaton?"

Kurt was at a loss. "I don't know what that is. If there isn't a doctor… a physician here, I can wrap his shoulder at least."

"Blaine. Ye heard the young master. Ye need tending," Mrs. Fitzgibbons stated in a tone that brooked no argument. "This way," she ordered, and she guided Kurt toward the castle proper with Blaine reluctantly trailing after them.

Déjà vu hit Kurt again as Mrs. Fitzgibbons marched them down a long narrow corridor that he had walked a mere four days ago, but was lit now with torches instead of the tour guide's flashlight. Kurt knew this passage led to the kitchen but what lay beyond even the guide could only guess at.

Four days ago, the upper stories made of wood had been gone, rotted away long ago. Yet now, Kurt was in one of their bedchambers, stirring a copper pot warming at the room's lit fireplace.

"As ye asked, garlic and witch hazel to boil the rags," Mrs. Fitzgibbons pronounced.

In Kurt's quest to create his dad a healthier diet, Kurt had researched the medicinal properties of various herbs and foodstuff. He was mostly guessing here, but anything was better than nothing.

"I also brought comfrey and cherry bark for the pain," she added. Trust the women of this time to know the curative properties of plants. "Call out if you need anything else."

"Thank you, Ms. Fitzgibbons," Kurt said as the woman made to leave.

"Everybody calls me Mrs. Fitz." She paused. "You may also."

Kurt felt like the woman, who must be the castle's housekeeper, cracked open a door, letting Kurt in… a little bit. Kurt needed allies and hoped he could build on this opening. He smiled at her. She nodded and left, closing the door behind her.

That left Kurt and the boy Blaine alone before the fire. Blaine sat on a wooden stool with his shirt off. He'd balked at taking it off but relented when Mrs. Fitz glared at him. She took it with her for washing and mending.

With no city noises or hums of machinery or electronics, the only sound was the crackling of the logs on the fire. How strange it was. Kurt was never so aware of the sounds of nature now that there wasn't anything to drown them out. He was also acutely aware of the growing tension between him and Blaine.

Kurt soaked a rag in the copper pot and squeezed out the excess water. He forced himself to focus on the cut across the bicep… good Lord, how did he get such well-defined muscles with gyms still a couple of centuries from existing? Kurt carefully washed away the dried blood caked around the wound.

"I told you, tis a scratch."

Was he pouting? Kurt glanced up at the boy, but his face was turned toward the fire. He was used to boys being uncomfortable in his presence but that was because they knew he was gay. Did Blaine? Was it as obvious here as back home? Kurt could feel his cheeks heating, and not from the fire.

"Good thing," Kurt grumbled, "since I don't know how to do stitches. If it was any deeper, you'd be out of luck."

"Does everyone in the colonies speak like you?" The boy's question was curious.

"Like me? How is that?" Kurt was suddenly tense. Had he inadvertently used modern slang? He had been choosing his words carefully or so he thought.

Blaine started to shrug, then winced in pain. "I dinna know. It's… no how the English speak, proper like."

Kurt chuckled. "Yeah— Yes. In the colonies, we tend to speak more… casually. I suppose since there's no one to say 'my lord' to, we don't think about standing on formality all the time."

Blaine stared at Kurt. "No lords…"

"Well, you've never heard of a Duke of New York, have you?" Kurt shrugged.

Blaine was silent at that, clearly stunned at the foreign idea of no aristocracy. Kurt busied himself with wrapping a clean cloth around Blaine's arm. Next, he gently positioned that injured arm in front of his chest, and never mind how well formed those pecs were or how golden his skin looked in firelight! He took a long strip of cloth and set about binding the arm tightly in place.

He stood up and moved around behind Blaine to wrap the bandage over his good shoulder and across his back. Kurt sucked in a breath and Blaine stiffened. Across the boy's back were raised welts. They were long since healed but still… he had been whipped!

"Who did that to you?" Kurt whispered. Of course, Kurt knew that such things were done but to see it first hand was shocking. For all the abuse he took at school, it had never resulted in more than bruises and some ruined clothes.

Blaine shifted on his stool and his neck stiffened. His chin lifted. Kurt knew that response all too well. Blaine was embarrassed, and Kurt's pity was making it worse.

"The Redcoats," Blaine finally spoke. "They flogged me."

Flogged? That sounded like something they did in the navy. "Why?" Kurt tried to keep his voice even.

"For escaping from Fort William."

"Why were you escaping?" Blaine's short answers were turning this into a game of Twenty Questions. Kurt knew he was being awfully nosy about his personal business, but he couldn't help himself.

"They were holding me prisoner," Blaine whispered conspiratorially. Kurt couldn't decide if the boy was trying to make light of a painful subject or if he was just amused at Kurt's curiosity.

"I gathered that," Kurt deadpanned. "Why were they holding you prisoner?"

"Obstruction," Blaine replied. "Or at least that's what the charge sheet read."

Kurt frowned. "What does that mean?"

"I suppose it's whatever the English say it is."

When he fell silent, Kurt went back to improvising a sling.

"It was near to four years ago now," Blaine suddenly mused. "They put a levy on all the land-holders in the country, sent out small parties of soldiers collecting food, horses for transport and suchlike. Aye, it was one day in October, Captain Randall came along to our place. My father and older brother were away. They'd gone to a funeral. I was up in the fields when I heard my mother shouting. She was trying to stop them from taking all the grain we had to see us through the winter. I struck the soldier who laid hands on my mother. Next thing I knew I was trussed up with the chickens, arrested for 'obstruction'."

"That's terrible," Kurt said quietly.

"Oh, aye," Blaine agreed. "Chickens are very poor company."

Kurt huffed. He did that too, used humor to pretend that something didn't hurt when it did. He finished wrapping a length of cloth around Blaine's torso, pinning the injured arm securely in place.

"You've a kind touch," Blaine said then.

Kurt tied the knot a little tighter than necessary and Blaine grimaced. He probably shouldn't have done that but there was always a little bit of Loki in his personality. Blaine seemed to understand though, because he bit back a grin.

"Yer father must be proud to have such a skilled son," Blaine said, and this time it was Kurt who winced. His chest tightened at the thought of Burt. He turned toward the fireplace and made to clean up but had to stop as his vision blurred.

Where was his dad now? What was he thinking, Kurt disappearing in the middle of the night? Would it cause another heart attack? Who would take care of him? Kurt's throat constricted, an ache building up in the back of his throat and making it hard to breathe.

He vaguely heard Blaine call his name. "Kurt? What's wrong?"

Kurt gave a little shake of his head. "I'm fine. My father—" His voice broke.

"Is he not alive?" Blaine's voice was soft.

Was he? He wasn't born yet. Not dead, not alive, not here. Kurt's chin scrunched as his lips tried to hold back a sob. His face crumpled. "No, he's not!"

One sob after another broke free. Kurt hated crying in of front other people, but he couldn't stop it. He was so alone! Even as alone as he felt at school, he always had his dad. At his mother's grave site when Kurt couldn't imagine how life was supposed to go on, his father reached out his hand to him. So strong. His lifeline. He was supposed to be there now for his dad.

An arm came around Kurt and drew him against a warm, solid chest and Kurt let out his anguish against a bare shoulder and he felt comforted. Part of him wanted to sink into that embrace but if he did that he might never leave. He had to find a way back! Hummels didn't let anyone keep them down, he told himself with the determination that got himself dressed and going back to the hell that was high school day after day! He drew on that strength now and pulled away from Blaine who was kneeling next to him. He got to his feet and wiped the tears from his eyes, sniffing. "I'm fine."

Blaine must have misunderstood Kurt's retreat because he stood too. "You need not be scared of me. Nor anyone else here, so long as I'm with ye."

The words sounded like a promise and Kurt wasn't sure what to make of Blaine. Not twenty-four hours ago, he held a sword on him, threatening to knock him over the head and now he was promising to keep him safe. Blaine looked small before the big fireplace, but resolute. Did he include his uncle in that promise?

"When you're not with me?"

"I won't be far away."

In his time, Blaine would still be a teenager. He was already a man and he carried himself like one, his hair a wild mess of wavy curls, eyes kind and steady, his body hardened from manual labor. His back was to the fire and scarred with a life far more difficult than any Kurt had ever known. They were strangers, but something was growing between them. Kurt didn't know what to make of it. No boy had ever offered him friendship, much less protection.

Back at the cottage, Kurt had asked him to trust him. Now Blaine was asking the same, and Kurt found to his surprise that he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those familiar with Outlander (tv & books) will know that Jaime's scars on his backs are far worse than what I have described here. I have downplayed its severity because that is part of the twisted obsession Captain Randall had for Jaime that I am not doing for this story.


	5. The MacKenzie

 

Kurt woke, sitting bolt up right, Mrs. Fitz's voice shrill in his ears.

"You must get up now! Come along!" The housekeeper drew the bed curtains back imperiously. "Up with ye!"

His bed had curtains. Kurt woke back into his nightmare, trapped in the past. He was in Castle Leoch. After Blaine left, he crawled into the four-poster bed. He'd never slept in a bed with curtains and he drew them closed in a childish effort to shut out the reality around him.

Mrs. Fitz left and returned with a bowl that she sat by the fire. "You slept the whole day, 'tis near five o'clock. I've some hot broth for ye by the fire."

Kurt's head pounded a little as he dragged himself from the covers. Five o'clock? His body was still heavy with fatigue. He winced as the sore thigh muscles protested at being made to move, still he got up.

Mrs. Fitz returned with a pitcher and basin. Kurt wrapped a blanket around him and accepted the bowl from the housekeeper. He barely had sat and taken a couple of spoonfuls before she took it from him and replaced it by the fire.

She clapped at him. "Come along."

Uncertain, Kurt stood. She reached for his t-shirt and Kurt squawked when she tried to lift it. She batted his hands away and had it off of him before he could stop her.

"Eh? What manner of cloth is this? It's no linen." Mrs. Fitz shifted the shirt in her hands. "Soft as down."

"It's cotton," Kurt said. Thank goodness, he wasn't wearing anything synthetic. "They grow it in the southern colonies. Hey—!"

Mrs. Fitz was reaching for his pajama bottoms now. She put her hands on her hips. "Ye think you have anything me own bairns didna have?" she demanded.

Probably not, but still! "I can wash myself!" Kurt protested sounding far more like a pouting child than he wanted to.

"Get on with it then," she huffed.

This was more humiliating than the boy's shower! Kurt kept his back, his naked backside, to the woman as he quickly scrubbed at his skin with the cloth dipped in cold water poured from the pitcher into the basin.

And while his back was turned, Mrs. Fitz gathered his clothes and tossed them into the fire.

"What the—!"

"The laird said to burn them," she said matter-of-factly. "More's the pity, though. So soft that cotton. Ah well."

Dougal again, Kurt fumed. But that was probably the smart thing to do. How could he explain machined-stitched clothing in a pre-industrial world? Dougal was thinking more in terms of being caught with a Stuart plaid. He hated to admit it, but he was right.

Mrs. Fitz wasn't done. She brought in a pile of clothes and Kurt wanted to say he could dress himself but looking at the assortment before him, maybe not. Most distressing was a lack of underwear. He knew the Scots went commando under their kilts but, wow, apparently that went for the pants too. All the years he took flack for dressing too girly, only to find himself in a century where the manly men, not only wore skirts, but also, wore stockings tied with leather garter belts. Unbelievable!

And his shirt was like a shapeless linen dress that fell to his knees. Now if this was a sweater, he could get behind that. The pants—breeches—stopped at the knee. He'd been known to rock long shorts with kick-ass boots, but these were straight-up culottes and the most homely looking leather buckle shoes. The most horrifying part was—he couldn't even call it a fly. It buttoned at the waist and then there was a flap! A fold up flap that buttoned at the waist. Thank God, Santana wasn't here to see this. She'd never let him live it down, assuming she could stop cackling long enough to give him hell. At least the waistcoat was longer than a modern vest, and covered much of it.

Kurt smiled when they got to the neck cloth, which was a simple length of white linen. Kurt took command of this, his love of scarves and neckerchiefs paying off. Mrs. Fitz watched with raised brows as Kurt tied a barrel knot and tucked the ends into the waistcoat collar. Kurt gave the housekeeper a smug grin and she huffed and held out a frock coat. He'd been starting to think he didn't look half bad, until he eyed the woolen coat with its big buttons and ridiculously over-sized cuffs that went up half the forearms. When in Rome, he supposed.

He brushed his hair as best he could, but without any product it just laid there flat. Dull was what Kurt thought as he looked in the mirror. The colors were muted, a dark green for the coat and plain brown breeches. The waistcoat had a plaid pattern, but it was middle gray with brown and green stripes.

Mrs. Fitz was of a different opinion. "There," she pronounced. "Now you're ready to be taken to himself."

Himself? Who was that?

***

Murtagh escorted Kurt into a study. The walls were lined with woven tapestries. Like nearly every room, there was the fireplace but here there were books and bird cages. Books lined on wooden shelves, stacked on a long chest, piled on the window sill and on the desk nearby to take advantage of the natural light.

The room was empty and Murtagh shut the door. Kurt took advantage of this to look around. He guessed that this was some time in the 1700s from the clothes and muskets, definitely before the American Revolution, but what year exactly? Kurt wasn't sure why he wanted to know so badly. It wouldn't change anything. He only had a cursory knowledge of history. It's not like it would give him a better understanding or get him any closer to Craigh na Dun. But maybe it would give him some kind of anchor, a fixed point to orient himself.

Kurt picked up a book and flipped through the front pages and chided himself. Was he really expecting a copyright date? He turned to the desk and found precisely what he was looking for, a letter. 1st November 1743. American Independence wouldn't be until 1776, thirty-three years away.

"I see you've met some of my friends."

Kurt looked up and at the door was a man Kurt had not seen yet. His beard was trimmed short and gray but his hair was still brown and long past his shoulders. His frock coat was gray but fur-lined.

"I'm sorry," Kurt smiled. "I didn't mean to be intrusive. I am fond of reading."

The man entered the room and Kurt couldn't help but drop his eyes down to his legs. He wore the same knee-length breeches and woolen stockings but his calves were bone-thin and bow-legged. His ankles were so badly formed that they almost looked like they were positioned to the side of his feet instead of above them. It was painful just to look at. Kurt tore his eyes away; he didn't want to be caught staring. When he stopped before Kurt, he handed him his book.

"Some old comrades, some new acquaintances yet to make their secrets known," the man said. "But all friends nonetheless."

Kurt's smile was genuine, even a little hopeful. Surely a man who saw books as friends could be reasoned with. Now that he was in the light, Kurt saw that his hair was a dark gray, not brown as he first thought.

"I welcome ye, lad. My name is Colum Ban Campbell MacKenzie, laird of this castle," the man greeted in a rough but gentle voice. "Please." He gestured to a high-backed tapestry chair.

So Dougal wasn't the laird but brother to the laird. And Blaine was their nephew.

Kurt nodded respectfully and sat. Colum shuffled on his bowed legs around the desk and took his seat there. He had this idea of aristocratic lords having throne-like chairs in great halls, not simple studies not unlike the ones common people still had.

"Kurt Hummel," Colum pronounced his name with a soft roll of the "R." Kurt nodded, smiling slightly. "Hummel. It's a Prussian name, is it not?"

Did he mean Russian? Because it sounded like he said Prussian. It was German… and Kurt realized—Prussia! Was Germany not Germany yet? Warily, Kurt answered, "Yes. My father's family immigrated from there."

Colum nodded, and then said, "It was my understanding that my brother and his men found you in some distress."

 _I rather think that was the other way around_ , Kurt wanted to sass, given that the soldiers were chasing Dougal and his merry band, and Kurt just happened to get in the way. But he wasn't about to mouth off to the very man whose hospitality he was now dependent upon.

"Yes," Kurt confirmed. "British soldiers shot at me. Please, extend my thanks to your brother for his kind escort." Colum gave a slight smile and nodded, so Kurt pressed on. "I would very much like to return to Inverness though and would appreciate help arranging for transportation there."

"I'm sure something can be arranged," Colum replied congenially. "But I do myself wish to know how exactly a lad from the colonies came to be wandering about the woods, dressed in nothing but your shirt and a Stuart tartan."

Kurt knew he was eventually going to be questioned and he spent much of the journey to Leoch coming up with what he hoped was a plausible story. The best lies, he'd heard, always contained an element of the truth and it would be far easier to remember if he stuck to it as much as possible.

Taking a breath, Kurt launched into his monologue. "I was born in Lima, a little town in eastern Pennsylvania." His first lie but Ohio wasn't a territory yet much less a state and definitely not one of the original thirteen colonies. "My father was a wheelwright. I'm afraid that I had no aptitude for it so I went to Philadelphia to apprentice as a tailor. I worked for Mr. Schuster. He's a man with ambitions to expand his shop. He wanted fabrics from across the Atlantic, but importing them through New York is expensive. Each merchant marks up the price, you see. So he struck on the idea of buying them directly. He planned a trip to Glasgow to inspect the Scottish textiles, only he fell ill on the eve of his departure. I came in his place, and conducted his business as he instructed. I was supposed to return home, but…" Kurt leaned forward hoping to sound like a small town kid with a chance to see something of the world. "This was the first time I'd ever traveled so far, to another country! I didn't know if I ever would be able to again. I'd heard stories of the Scottish highlands, and I had a little money of my own put aside, so I decided to give myself a little holiday. On the road to Inverness, I was waylaid by thieves. They took everything, even my clothes!"

Kurt was a little chagrined to have Rachel Berry's voice in his head giving him acting pointers, but he didn't need her dramatic embellishments. He needed sincerity for Colum to believe him, so he squashed down all his limelight-stealing instincts.

"And the Stuart plaid?" Colum prodded.

"I made the... trousers from some leftover material from the shop," Kurt lied. "I had no idea of its connection to the Stuarts. If I had, I would have left it at home."

Colum nodded. "I am grieved that a visitor to Scotland should have been greeted so roughly… and a wee bit surprised that thieves would be so bold as to rob someone wearing the Stuart plaid."

Kurt kept his face carefully neutral while he panicked internally. He hadn't thought of that. "I'm sure I don't know what they were thinking. I assumed like most criminals that they were desperate men. It was night, perhaps in the dark, they couldn't see it properly. Or they did and didn't care, or thought they would get far more from me than they did. I don't know. I don't imagine criminals, in general, are very political minded."

Colum gave a small chuckle. "No, I don't suppose they are."

"Ahh, we were discussing my transportation to Inverness," Kurt pressed.

Leaning back in his chair studying him, Colum finally said, "Aye. Alas we are preparing for a Gathering. I dinna have a man or horse to spare."

"A Gathering?" Kurt queried.

Colum brightened at this. "Aye, the MacKenzie clan and all who owe fealty will be coming to Leoch for a Gathering. It happens once, maybe twice, in a lifetime. It'll be a grand celebration, and you will be my guest. A chance for me to make amends on behalf of my country, and a chance for you to see a Highland clan at their finest."

How could Kurt say no to that? He couldn't. So Kurt put on his best smile and said, "I would love that. Thank you."


	6. The Gathering

 

Weeks. It was weeks before this Gathering and although Colum made some vague assurances that afterward he would help Kurt to get back to Inverness, it sounded suspiciously like the laird was putting him off. But to push him any harder would have been to insult the man, so all Kurt could do was to fume silently.

What else could he do? What if whatever connection between this time and his time was only open at certain times? If he waited too long, could he still get back? The thought haunted Kurt and he resolved to find his own way if he could.

In the meantime, Kurt made himself useful by offering to help Mrs. Fitz with the cooking in the kitchen and the mending. As he suspected the kitchen was gossip central and after a little warming up, maids were all too happy to tell tales. He tried to go for walks in the evening to get the layout of the surrounding area, but soon discovered to his intense frustration that Dougal had assigned Rupert and Angus to follow him wherever he went.

Kurt took his dinners in the Hall with the laird and his household. He kept an eye out for Blaine but hadn't seen him since they arrived. He later learned that Blaine had been assigned to help Old Alec out in the stables. He wanted to ask why, it seemed like a menial job for a laird's nephew. And why wouldn't he eat with the family? Was he an illegitimate relation? Someone they would feel obliged to give shelter to but not acknowledge in any official capacity? It would explain why he was told Blaine's surname was MacTavish but everyone looked at him funny when he called him by it. Kurt sternly reminded himself that he wasn't here to learn about Blaine!

One morning the kitchen was a buzz of activity, Mrs. Fitz barking out orders like a field marshal.

"What's happening?" Kurt asked the scullery maid.

"Today is Hall," she answered.

"Hall?" Kurt repeated stupidly. Thank God everyone accepted him as an ignorant colonist and explained what everyone knew as commonplace.

"Aye," she told him. "Today is the day the MacKenzie will give judgment."

Kurt had learned " _the_ MacKenzie" meant Colum. Before Kurt knew it, he was swept up in preparations. He was told that he must change into a new set of clothes, this one finer than the homespun one he'd been given.

Up in the Great Hall where the dinners were held, was a new crowd, not the household but locals of all ranks. The tables and all furniture save for the laird's chair upon the raised dais were cleared away to make room. And for the first time, Kurt heard a bagpipe played, wheezing out its tune.

Colum entered at the far end, flanked by his brother, Dougal. Both proceeded down the length of the Hall, Colum slowly on his bowed, disfigured legs; Dougal steady and strong. Kurt wondered how it was that Dougal hadn't usurped control from his disabled brother. When Colum sat and a fur blanket was placed over his legs, "Hall" began.

The MacKenzie's lawyer, Ned Gowan, sat at a table and read the names of the complainants. He reminded Kurt of Icabod Crane with his librarian face and wire-rimmed glasses.

The locals stepped forward when their names were called and made their grievances known. With a flair and a humor that put Judge Judy to shame, Colum rendered his judgments. Most of it was in Gaelic, but Mrs. Fitz translated for Kurt. Many of the disputes were over property of one kind or another. Before long, Kurt wondered if he was expected to stay to the end. Just then, a man dragged in a young girl by the arm. She was slightly younger than Kurt with long blond hair and a heart-shaped face. Mrs. Fitz's pleasant smile faded at the sight of the girl.

Kurt looked to her for translation, and Mrs. Fitz told him that the man was the girl's father and he was accusing his daughter of loose behavior. He was asking for Colum to punish her. Kurt couldn't hide his scowl but he told himself to keep his mouth shut. The last thing he need was to get into a public row with the laird over backward archaic gender issues. It felt cowardly, but maybe he should leave because he didn't think he could watch this.

It was when he was looking about to see if anyone would notice his departure that he saw Blaine. He was on the other side the Hall standing next to Murtagh who seemed to be very unhappy with whatever Blaine was saying.

The girl started to struggle as Rupert and Angus approached her. Blaine spoke out then. Murtagh glared at Blaine but didn't stop him when he stepped forward to address Colum.

Mrs. Fitz caught her breath, then said, "Ah, bonny lad, he's offering to take the girl's punishment."

"What?" Kurt blurted out. Not that he wanted to see a girl being beaten, but he didn't want to see this either. "But he's still injured." Blaine might not be wearing the sling anymore, but the torn muscles took longer to heal.

Mrs. Fitz hummed. "They're arguing it now."

The father didn't seem pleased, but whatever Blaine was saying, it made everyone else laugh. Dougal leaned over to whisper something to Colum who spoke decisively.

"He allows it!" Mrs. Fitz said. When the girl was released, she ran straight to Mrs. Fitz.

There were a few more exchanges, but Mrs. Fitz was now occupied in comforting the frightened girl.

Rupert stepped before Blaine who nodded to him. Rupert landed a blow to Blaine's stomach that had him doubled over. Blaine stood and gave Rupert a little smile who actually returned it as if both agreed that this wasn't personal. But it felt personal to Kurt who flinched at the next stomach blow. Blaine wasn't so quick to straighten this time. The next punch was in the back to the kidneys.

"How long does this go on?" Kurt demanded.

"Til blood's drawn," Mrs. Fitz said.

Rupert made a hard jab to the face and Blaine spat blood. There it had to be over, but Kurt saw Rupert look to Dougal who only stared back impassively. He had no idea why Dougal would bear his nephew ill will, but it was clear that Colum was not going to stop it. Kurt had to bite back a cry when Rupert deliberately aimed a blow to Blaine's injured shoulder.

Blaine staggered and managed to stay on his feet, but he was clutching his shoulder. He faced his uncles. Dougal gave an imperceptible nod, and Rupert gave Blaine such a punch to the jaw that it knocked him to the ground. Kurt was ready to take a torch to the entire castle if this didn't stop. Knowing that speaking up would make it worse for Blaine was the only thing keeping him silent.

Murtagh, who Kurt was beginning to realize was never far away from Blaine, stepped forward and held out his hand to help Blaine rise. Still gripping his shoulder, Blaine stumbled back to stand before his uncles and gave them a mutinous if slightly unsteady bow. Colum nodded but Dougal was unreadable. Blaine nodded to Rupert who acknowledged him in return… that bro code that said they were good. Kurt would never understand that.

Murtagh put a steadying arm around Blaine and helped him out of the Hall. Kurt no longer cared if he gave offense, he left as well.

***

Kurt caught up with Blaine and convinced him to come with him to the kitchen where he poured him a drink as he sat by the fire. He took a clean rag and gingerly dabbed away the blood on his face.

"Why did you do that? Take that girl's punishment?" Kurt had to know. Part of him couldn't help thinking that maybe Blaine was the one the girl was being "loose" with and felt responsible for her being in trouble. It would make what he did honorable even if it twisted up something inside of Kurt. "Do you know her?"

Blaine winced despite how gentle Kurt was trying to be. "Ken who she is. Haven't really spoken to her, though."

"Then why?"

"It would have shamed the lass to be beaten in the Hall before everyone that knows her. Taken a long time to get over it." Blaine hissed when Kurt touched a particularly raw spot. "It's easier for me. I'm sore but I'm nae really damaged. I'll get over it in a couple days."

Kurt's brows were knitted with worry. What was he to make of Blaine? Was he really this good-hearted and selfless? Was he thinking about how he was whipped and wanted to spare the girl that?

Mrs. Fitz bustled in carrying a tray of herbal remedies. She prepared a drink for Blaine. "Here ye are, lad. Rinse your mouth with this. It'll cleanse the cuts and ease the pain." She gave the cup to the boy, explaining to Kurt, "Willow bark tea with a bit of ground orris root."

Blaine drank, grimacing but managing a smile. "Top of life."

The mother hen of a woman gazed gratefully at him. "What you did was kindly meant, lad." To Kurt, she confided, "Laoghaire is my granddaughter, ye ken?"

Emotion shook her voice, but she collected herself before leaving.

Kurt badly wanted to ask what was going on between him and Dougal, but suspected that Blaine would clam up. Scots didn't talk about family business outside the family.

"Your shoulder doesn't appear the worse for wear," Kurt said instead and couldn't quite keep the resentment from showing.

Blaine started to speak but the squeak of the door hinges announced a visitor. Laoghaire shyly stood in the doorway.

"That's my cue," Kurt quipped. Never let it be said that Kurt Hummel didn't know when to make an exit.

***

Any doubts that Colum MacKenzie was delaying Kurt at Leoch because he was suspicious of Kurt were dispelled when he was summoned to the laird's study, and Colum requested Kurt make him a suit for the Gathering. The importance of the event was not lost on him. The sheer amount of foodstuffs coming into the kitchen was enough to impress upon Kurt the enormity of this family gathering, and that it would last for days in which the clan would reaffirm their ties to their laird and then there would be feasts and games and hunts that took place maybe once a generation. But Kurt also suspected that Colum was putting Kurt's story to the test. He wanted to see if Kurt really was a tailor. He knew he could design an exceptional outfit, although Colum's disability would be a challenge. He'd only designed for himself in the past, and had use of a sewing machine. He'd have to sew this entire outfit by hand, and he wasn't sure his stitching would pass muster.

As Kurt took his measurements, they did their dance: Kurt repeating his request to go to Inverness and Colum making vague assurances followed by excuses for delays. It was when Colum said that Leoch had no tailor in residence and had to rely on traveling journeymen for their needs, and then suggested Kurt take that employment that Kurt knew that Colum had no intention of letting him go. He knew he was right to plan an escape, and his best time would be during the distraction of the Gathering.

Kurt learned where and when the guards were posted around the castle and the patrols around the surrounding grounds. With all the food in the kitchens, now it was easy to siphon off a little at a time to sustain him on his journey. Kurt made himself friendly with nearly everyone by asking where they were from and encouraging them to describe their homes, gleaning locations, the roads and landmarks he could use to find Inverness. From there he was sure he could find Craigh na Dun.

He worked out the exact escape route, timed it right down to how many steps between each segment and rehearsed it in his head over and over. He wished he could take one of the horses but Kurt had never ridden one in his life—until he came here and he wasn't the one driving. Even if he could get his hands on the gentlest horse possible, it was a disaster in the making. He'd have to go on foot, which put him at a terrible disadvantage once they began looking for him. He was counting on the men being drunk and hungover to give him a good head start. If he was really lucky he might come across a traveling tinker or family to give him a ride. Otherwise, he planned to hide himself and let them pass by. They wouldn't be looking for him behind them.

Convinced of the soundness of his plan, Kurt kept himself busy making Colum's outfit. He was quite pleased with it, making good use of the MacKenzie plaid, and adding little flourishes of his own. Perhaps before he left this time, Kurt might just start a new fashion trend!

As the days approached for the Gathering, people began arriving. The higher ranked filled the rooms of the castle while the others set up camp in the fallow fields. The event attracted merchants and gypsies. It raised Kurt's hopes that he could easily get misplaced among all the new faces. At last the day came that Kurt chose to make his escape. The oath-taking! He was ready, all he needed was a weapon. He wove his way among the kitchen tables until he spied what he was looking for… a knife.

He almost jumped a foot in the air when Mrs. Fitz called out his name. "Kurt! Yer no wearing that to the ceremony, are ye, lad?"

Kurt hesitated. "I-I didn't think an outsider would be welcomed at such a time."

"Don't be silly," Mrs. Fitz pish-poshed. "Yer Colum's personal guest. Ye must attend."

That was a hiccup Kurt hadn't planned for. "I didn't think to make a suitable outfit for myself," he tried to beg off.

But he was outmaneuvered. Mrs. Fitz hurried Kurt off. And that's how Kurt found himself in a proper frock coat and being led through the crowds to a spot on the upper balcony overlooking the Great Hall. The bagpipes struck up as soon as Colum appeared at the open double doors. Kurt took a moment to preen at how regal the MacKenzie laird looked, belted around his coat was his broadsword and long dagger, a dirk. He had to admire how Colum made no effort to hide his disfigured legs, always walked the length of the Hall, or perhaps that was the point, to prove to everyone he could and defy anyone to claim he wasn't fit. The gathered clansmen and women all respectfully parted for him.

Colum's wife and son waited for him on the dais. He turned and gazed proudly at his kinsmen. The speech he made was in Gaelic and though Kurt didn't understand it, he knew the import nevertheless. The MacKenzies applauded their laird enthusiastically.

Dougal stepped forward and stood before his elder brother. He drew his long dirk and knelt. Holding the naked blade in his right hand, he made his oath of fealty to his laird. "I swear, by the cross of our Lord Jesus Christ, and by the holy iron that I hold to give ye my fealty and to pledge ye my loyalty to the name of clan MacKenzie. And if ever I shall raise my hand against ye in rebellion, I ask that this holy iron shall pierce my heart."

Dougal kissed the blade before rising and sheathing it. He took both his brother's hands in his and kissed them. Colum turned and took a silver bowl from a table set by for this purpose. Dougal drank from it and Colum did the same. The clan cheered and the pipes began to play again, a signal for all the men to form a line to make their vows as well.

With everyone's attention focused on the Hall, Kurt made his move. He went to his room to gather his bundles and he was off. Past the storeroom on the right. Avoid the kitchen. Through the east wing, then make for the north stairs. Fifteen paces toward the well. Keep to the northwest to avoid the sentry, who usually faces south. Some passersby in the courtyard nearly messed up his timing to avoid being seen by the guard but he made it. He was outside the castle!

"Lost yer way?"

Kurt cried out at the voice in the dark. He whirled. It was Blaine. He was sitting at the base of the tree just where the woods began. Did he know? How did he know?

Blaine was on his feet and eyeing the bundle of provisions in Kurt's arms. He chuckled. "How far did ye think ye'd get on a dark night with half the MacKenzie clan after ye by morning?"

"By morning I expect they'd still be sleeping off their hangovers!" Kurt declared defiantly. All his plans, for nothing!

"You wouldna make it through the woods," the boy scoffed.

"I know exactly where I'm going."

"I meant the sentries," Blaine countered.

"I know where they are and the way through the woods and the road to Inverness," Kurt shot back, throwing all caution out the window now that he was caught.

"That's a very sound plan, sìthiche. Or would be, had Colum no post extra guards through the woods tonight. He'd hardly leave the castle undefended, and the fighting men of the clan inside it."

Kurt glared at Blaine. Of course he hadn't accounted for that and he should have. "I'm going anyway. Don't try to stop me!"

Kurt marched determinedly on. Blaine called after him. "The best trackers in the clan are here. They'll catch ye. Colum will no be calling ye a guest after that."

"Why?!" Kurt cried rounding back on Blaine. "I haven't harmed anyone here! I even helped you! Why in God's name, do Colum and Dougal want to keep me here?! They can't still think I'm some sort of Stuart Jacobite!"

"Nay, they don't. But they are wondering if they were supposed to think so," Blaine confided.

"What?!"

"They think you might be an English spy."

"That's insane!" Kurt sputtered. "I'm not English!"

"Yer still a subject of the British Crown."

 _I'm an American!_ Kurt wanted to shout but that wasn't a word and wouldn't be for another thirty years. This was maddening, he could scream in his frustration. "I. AM. NOT. A. SPY!!! How can they possibly believe that?!"

"They know you're not telling the truth about yerself." Blaine's calmness was maddening too.

How could he tell them the truth? They'd never believe him. Or worse, they would and burn him as a witch.

Kurt clenched his teeth, breathing heavily. He was trapped. Unable to do anything else, Kurt sat down on the ground where he stood.

Blaine came and sat beside him.

"I want to go home!" Kurt breathed, fighting back tears.

"I'm sorry, sìthiche." And Blaine put his arm around him. "Truly I am."

"I'm not a spy," he mumbled.

"I believe ye," Blaine soothed.

"Then tell your uncles!"

"They dinna listen to me."

Kurt hung his head and Blaine drew him against him. He didn't know how long they sat like that but eventually Blaine gave his shoulders a squeeze and said, "Come along. I'll take ye back up to the castle."

Kurt sighed heavily.

"Don't lose heart, sìthiche," Blaine said as he stood and helped Kurt up. "In time, Colum will have to see you're no threat and he'll let you go. He's a fair man."

 _Fair, my ass_ , Kurt thought darkly. In time. How much time? Was time his friend or his enemy? Would the stones still work? What would he do if he could never go back?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blaine will explain sìthiche, the nickname he's given to Kurt, toward the end of the story.


	7. Oath-Taking

## Castle Leoch, 1743

They were almost at the castle entrance when they were accosted by three drunken clansmen. Even in the dark Kurt could see they weren't locals but they knew Blaine on sight. And they knew he had not yet given his oath to Colum. Blaine tried to beg off that he wasn't dressed properly but the men just laughed.

Kurt should be used to this feeling by now, like a leaf dropped onto a river and swept along on a current he was powerless to stop. He and Blaine were swept into the castle and Blaine given a kilt to wear and swept again to the Great Hall. When the men escorted Blaine to the back of the line to wait his turn before the laird, Kurt had been forgotten. He drifted along the witnesses in the Hall until he bumped into Murtagh. He didn't know how or why but Kurt was sure something was amiss. Too late he realized Blaine was avoiding the oath-taking but couldn't think why. He was in no way disloyal to his uncle—the other way around, maybe. The boy was practically the soul of loyalty. If anyone here was loyal to Blaine it was Murtagh.

"Blaine is here," Kurt told the older man. Kurt was right in his suspicion because Murtagh's head snapped to the back of the Hall where Blaine stood, looking exceptionally handsome with his plaid slung over his shoulder. Once again, his dumb ass would notice that while something bad was about to go down.

Everyone else seemed to notice too as more and more heads turn in his direction and sounds of merry-making died away into a tense silence.

"What is it?" Kurt whispered. "What's wrong?"

Murtagh scowled and looked like he wanted to do something but couldn't. "If Blaine pledges fealty to his uncle, Colum, then he'd be in line to succeed as laird. He'd be part of clan MacKenzie, ye see?"

"But Colum has a son, Hamish," protested Kurt. "And if not him, wouldn't Dougal be next in line?"

"That may be the way the English do things. But clans are tanist," Murtagh explained. "Blaine has MacKenzie blood."

As Blaine neared the front of the Hall, Kurt could see that he was being stalked by Dougal off to the side.

"If enough clansmen want Blaine to be laird, then there it would be, and a terrible thing at that."

Kurt had wondered earlier what issue Dougal had with Blaine, and here it was. Blaine was a rival. He had Blaine beaten that much harder to let him know that if Blaine ever crossed him, he wouldn't spare him, nephew or no.

Dougal took his place at his brother's side as if daring Blaine to openly defy him.

"Can't he decline to take the oath?" Kurt asked.

"Not while he abides at Leoch. As the laird's nephew and as a healthy man at arms, he has no choice. If before all Blaine refuses, the maids would likely be scrubbing the lad's blood from the floor at Colum's feet."

"Why didn't he leave then?" demanded Kurt, enraged that no matter what he did one of his uncles would have him killed.

"The lad's got a price on his head. Wouldna be long before Captain Randall and his Dragoons had him in irons. The only safe place in Scotland is at Leoch." Murtagh turned to look squarely at Kurt. "Until now. If Blaine had stayed hidden till the Gathering was over, Colum and Dougal wouldna pressed the matter further."

That was why Blaine was outside in the woods. He wasn't lying in wait for Kurt, he was avoiding the castle. He wouldn't in this spot if it wasn't for him. "This is my fault," Kurt breathed.

"Aye, it tis," Murtagh agreed.

Blaine's head was down, his face a mask of determination. As his turn came, he stood before his uncles, and a grim silence gripped the Hall. Blaine knelt before Colum, but he didn't draw his blade. He glanced up at first Colum, then Dougal. He stood back up.

Oh God, he was going to refuse the oath! Kurt's breath stopped in his chest. All around the Hall, men's hands were moving to their sword hilts.

"Colum MacKenzie," Blaine's young voice was firm. "I come to you as kinsman and as ally." Colum's face was tight with controlled anger. "But I give you no vow."

Kurt heard the sound of metal scraping metal as men prepared to unsheathe their swords.

"For my oath is pledged to the name that I bear." Blaine took a step closer to Colum. "I give you my obedience as kinsman. And as laird. And I hold myself bound to yer word, so long as my feet rest on the lands of the clan MacKenzie.

Only the crackling of the burning firewood could be heard as all eyes turned to Colum. Even Dougal dropped his stare away from Blaine to the floor. Colum's face was unreadable as he looked down at his earnest nephew. The laird moved then and presented Blaine with the silver bowl and smiled. Blaine grinned and took the bowl and drank.

As if on the turn of a dime, the tension broke and the gathered clan cheered. Honor was served and all was well again. At Colum's command the musicians began a merry jig.

Kurt was dizzy from the abrupt turn of events. Somehow that boy had threaded the eye of the needle between his uncles and would live to see another day.

Men and women danced as Blaine made his way over, only glancing at Kurt before facing Murtagh who just shook his head at him. Not for the first time, Kurt wanted to know what the nature of their relationship was. He watched as the two departed.

***

At the feast of the last night of the Gathering, Colum MacKenzie called out from his table, "Master Hummel!"

Kurt glanced up from his place at a lower table. Eyes turned on him. Kurt looked about for some help but found none. Mrs. Fitz was in the kitchen and Blaine was on the other side of the Hall.

"Come ye here," Colum summoned, and Kurt no longer had a choice.

Kurt tried for nonchalance as he approached the laird. He sketched a bow that drew chuckles.

"My chambermaid tells me ye can sing," Colum said unexpectedly.

He had taken to humming while working in the kitchen and at the women's encouragement he sang a few songs whose lyrics wouldn't be too out of place, which seriously strained his playlist. He might have known gossip would spread.

"A little, sir," Kurt replied hesitantly.

"Sing us a song from the colonies," Colum invited and there was agreement made by thumping the tables.

There was no getting out of this, but then he realized that he had just been given the solo. Well, Kurt never said no to that. He drew himself up straight while he mentally flipped through his go-to songs. He was about to settle on "Let It Be" when another choice crossed his mind. _Was that wise?_ he thought. _To possibly offend his hosts?_ Screw it, if Anna Leonowens could sing house songs to the King of Siam, Kurt Hummel could bloody well do this!

He turned to face the room. _Hello, I'm Kurt Hummel. I'm auditioning for the misplaced time-traveler and today I'll be singing Les Mis_. Out loud, though, he said, "This is a prayer for a young man who's gone off to war." Kurt cast a side look at Colum and Dougal. "It's called 'Bring Him Home'."

Since coming here, Kurt had been on edge trying to make it from one moment to the next, out of place, the outsider who didn't belong, but this was his element. This is where he shined! He knew his voice, he knew how to fill it with all the feelings that he kept bottled up inside of himself and project it to the back row of a theater.

Kurt opened his mouth and let the first notes flow out. He watched with satisfaction at the reaction. People never expected his voice and were always initially startled just before he drew them in.

_God on high,_

_Hear my prayer_

_In my need,_

_You have always been there_

_He is young_

He let his voice carry high above the audience to emphasize his own youth.

_He's afraid_

_Let him rest_

_Heaven blessed._

Slowly raising the volume here, Kurt knew he could stun them with the strength of his voice. Just a taste, saving the best for the end.

_Bring him home_

_Bring him home_

_Bring him home_

Kurt brought the song back down to a quiet place. This was where he would make his plea to the entire clan MacKenzie to see that he was just a boy, far from home, alone, who only wanted to go home. And they had the power to help him or not.

_He's like the son I might have known_

_If God had granted me a son._

_The summers die_

_One by one_

_How soon they fly_

_On and on_

He knew how to let his voice tremble with the emotion that songs always evoked in him, so the audience could feel it too.

_And I am old_

_And will be gone._

_Bring him peace_

_Bring him joy_

_He is young_

_He is only a boy_

Kurt turned his head to look at the brothers, Colum and Dougal, squarely.

_You can take_

_You can give_

_Let him be_

_Let him live_

Now was the buildup where he would drive the song home.

_If I die, let me die_

Bring it back soft one last time…

_Let him live_

_Bring him home_

And pour his soul into his plea...

_Bring him home_

_BRING HIM HOME_

When Kurt opened his eyes, he was shaking. The Hall was silent for a breath before erupting into applause. A few women dabbed their eyes with hankies. A few men sat dumbfounded.

Kurt turned to the laird and his stone-faced brother. He bowed his head to them and made his way back to his seat like he was Caruso gracing the Met. It was Blaine's eyes on him that he felt, though. He stared at Kurt like he'd never seen him before.

***

Apparently it was only in musicals where songs would melt hearts and set people free because Kurt was still at Leoch. The days after the last of the Gathering visitors were gone were like a deflated balloon. Everyone was dragging, worn out by the work and partying. Still, there was the cleanup to be done. Despite the exhaustion, there was happy chatter, remembering all the fun that was had.

Kurt settled into a routine of working in the kitchens, making some garments upon request, and singing when urged to. Privately, he mulled over his thwarted escape plan. Getting out of the castle was solid enough, but eluding the chase party that was sure to follow was proving more difficult… until Dougal himself provided him a possibility.

One day he showed up and announced that he would be taking Kurt on the road. Since Colum couldn't travel, Dougal stood in for his brother and collected the rent from the tenets who lived and worked on MacKenzie land. Dougal claimed that he wanted Kurt to come with him to provide entertainment on the long journey.

It was a pretty thin excuse. Dougal was afraid Kurt might escape while he and his men were gone. Did he realize that he was all but admitting to a rift between himself and Colum? He was letting slip that he didn't trust Colum to keep a tight rein on him, or maybe Colum wasn't as convinced that Kurt was a spy and might even decide to let Kurt go. He filed that little nugget away for future consideration.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anna from the _King and I_ was promised a house as part of her employment. When the King reneged, Anna only taught the children songs and sayings about house/home until the King relented and gave her a house.


	8. On the Road

 

## The Lands of Clan MacKenzie, 1743

 The rent party consisted of most of the men loyal to Dougal, so of course Rupert and Angus were there. Kurt was a little surprised Blaine was included, but then maybe it was for the same reason as Kurt. Obviously, Dougal was a believer of keeping your friends close and your enemies closer. Ned Gowan, the lawyer retained by Colum to manage the clan's financial affairs, was also present. They brought two wagons with them to carry the "rent" which would be paid not just in coin, but in grain, and oats, and eggs, and live animals.

Blaine had been tasked with teaching Kurt how to ride a horse, much to his pleasure. He enjoyed the boy's company and he was a far kinder teacher than any of the other men would be. He showed Kurt how to approach the horse, make friends, how to mount on his own. For the first couple of days, he rode behind Kurt showing him how to hold the reins and direct the horse with them. He picked up far quicker than he would have thought. Blaine then rode beside him until Kurt was feeling confident at his new found skill.

When they broke for camp, Kurt found himself sitting at the base of a tree alone away from the men around the campfire. For all they claimed they brought him along to entertain them, they seemed pretty good at entertaining themselves. They regaled each other with stories and jokes, many of which Kurt was sure were crude and lewd. It was all in Gaelic, but still some things were universal. This was the boys' locker room all over again. Only this time Kurt didn't have his Glee girls to keep him company.

None of this was lost on Kurt. He was deliberately being excluded, forcefully reminded that he was an outlander, not to be trusted, but at the same time he had to stay within eyesight. If he strayed beyond that, Dougal sent one of his "dogs" to fetch him back, letting Kurt know that he expected Kurt to try to run and all but daring him to do it.

He didn't treat Blaine that way, but then, he wasn't trying to run away. If Castle Leoch was the only safe place for Blaine, because he was wanted for escaping Fort William, then why was Dougal risking Blaine's life? Did he fear him that much? But watching Blaine with Dougal's men, he began to see why. Blaine was liked. He wasn't as crude as the others were, but he was affable and good-natured. Murtagh had said that bloodline alone did not secure succession. Scots might not actually vote for their laird, but apparently it did require a majority consent. And people liked Blaine, maybe more than they liked Dougal. And that's what he feared. An idea came to Kurt then to make Dougal sorry he brought him on this road trip.

Kurt sang for the men, picking campfire singalongs, drinking songs they could clap along to, the bawdier the better. He expanded his repertoire to telling stories. An immediate favorite was a carefully edited Star Wars with medieval knights of the Jedi Order with their swords that lit with divine fire, the Black Knight Vader and the Druid Old Ben Kenobi. It was working beautifully. Kurt was invited to sit at the fire while Dougal glared daggers at him, that is until Dougal began his own story-time.

At each village they visited, the day was spent tallying the rent the farmers brought and ended with drinking at the local tavern. There Dougal held court, regaling them with sermons in Gaelic. Dougal had another reason for bringing Blaine with him. That first night, he ripped the shirt from Blaine to expose the whip marks on his back. Kurt was furious, how dare he use Blaine this way! Blaine's humiliation was obvious, but it was also silent. Blaine would never cross his uncle out of a sense of kinship that blatantly only ran in one direction. None of the MacKenzie men spoke on Blaine's behalf. Even kindly, educated Ned Gowan said nothing. He merely collected the money that Dougal was extorting from the villagers even after they paid their rent to the laird.

It came to a head when they came across the Watch burning a family's house and stealing their livestock. The Watch were a kind of self-appointed police, gang members really, running protection rackets and harassing anyone even suspected of being English sympathizers. Dougal did nothing except take a share of the stolen goods. That night Kurt all but accused them of being thieves. Blaine intervened and smoothed things over, but the damage was done. Every ounce of goodwill Kurt had manage to build up was gone in an instant.

The days passed one very much like another. They came to a village large enough to have an inn where Kurt sat with Ned Gowan, the only member of the group who was still speaking to him. Until Kurt opened his big mouth.

"Why did you let me think you were thieves?" Kurt asked, and Ned stiffened.

"What do you mean?" Ned feigned unconcern.

The MacKenzie party, minus Blaine who had gone to feed the horses, sat rather glum-faced at another table, eating their meal quietly for a change. It was another table of locals that were having all the fun, laughing and joking to each other loudly.

"Dougal isn't pocketing the money for himself," Kurt continued. "His actions aren't criminal, they're political."

Ned kept his expression and voice neutral. "I thought you had no Gaelic."

"I know the word Stuart," Kurt told him. And I know an uprising is coming, a doomed uprising. "He's raising money for an army."

"Best to keep that to yourself, lad," Ned cautioned.

Dougal kept Kurt close because he feared he was a spy for the English but in doing so he gave Kurt a front row seat to his treasonous activities, the very access that a spy would want. Then it dawned on Kurt what Ned was trying to warn him about. If Dougal ever did decide Kurt was a spy, he would kill him. He couldn't let him go, not with everything he knew. Crap, why couldn't Kurt keep his mouth shut?

Kurt let his eyes drift around the room of Scottish men. How many of them would die in the war to come that history already recorded as a lost cause? A war for which the British retaliated by breaking the clans, banning their tartans and traditions. Scotland would never be the same.

There wasn't anything Kurt could do. This wasn't his business, these weren't his people, wasn't his country. He should just keep out of it. "They don't have a chance, you know that, don't you?" he found himself saying anyway.

Ned's brows furrowed. "And how would you know that?"

"The British have the strongest army in the world."

"That's a known fact. What of it?" Ned countered.

"You can't win," Kurt insisted.

"You talk as if the future is already decided. Out-manned we may be, but I would match our fighting hearts against the best army in the world." Ned wasn't merely conducting the business of the men who paid him. It was clear now that Ned believed in their cause. He was a Jacobite.

"Fighting hearts are no match against cannons. They are going to get themselves killed!"

Kurt was so engrossed in their whispered conversation that he missed what was happening around them. The locals were growing louder and bolder in their comments and their glances over in Kurt's direction. And the MacKenzies were growing ever angrier with them. Kurt didn't see which one of the MacKenzies stood up and went to the other table, until he took the head of one of the locals and slammed it onto the table.

And that's how Kurt witnessed his first bar fight. He and Ned wisely gathered up their belongings and retreated to a corner until the Scotsmen knocked each other silly. Ultimately the MacKenzies came out the victors… if you could call three split lips, two bloody noses, twelve smashed knuckles and four loosened teeth a victory.

It fell to Kurt to tend to them. He lined them up on stools, cleaning and bandaging them in turn while they whined the loudest about their most minor scratches until Kurt finally exclaimed, "Oh my God, you are such crybabies! Without the good sense God gave cows! Any excuse for a fight."

" _You_ were the excuse," Murtagh said. He and Dougal had managed to come out of the brawl unscathed.

"Me?" Kurt couldn't believe that.

"It was your honor we were defending. The lout called you a… well, things I willna repeat."

Kurt glanced at the MacKenzie men, who suddenly couldn't look him in the eye.

Murtagh continued, "You're a guest of the MacKenzie. We can insult you, but God help any other man that does."

Kurt stood open-mouthed. What was he to make of this? Boys shunned him, tolerated him or were indifferent at best, a threat to his safety at worse. These thick-skulled, boorish knuckleheads, who were shameless about their bad behavior, were now intensely embarrassed at being caught being noble. Human was what they were: good and flawed all mixed inseparably together into one big sloppy mess.

"I've been insulted my whole life. No one but my father has ever defended me," Kurt quietly confessed. "I've never had brothers."

He had succeeded in making everyone uncomfortable. He shook his head, whispering, "Boys!" and went back to tending to them.

***

Good humor was restored by the time they made camp. Angus of all people even helped him unload some of the supplies. He was back in their good graces, well, everyone but Ned Gowan, who apparently was offended by what Kurt said back at the inn. He would think of something to make amends there. If nothing else, that barroom brawl had shown Kurt that he had in some degree been accepted by the MacKenzies as one of their own, and it had survived them being mad at him for calling them thieves. Kurt found himself gratified by that, and not just as a means of trust that he needed to escape.

Kurt was actually in a good mood when Dougal marched right up to him, took him by the arm and hauled him off to the little stream they were camped by.

"Who are you?" he demanded. Kurt stumbled back a couple of steps when Dougal released his arm. "A tailor from Philadelphia. That's what you'd have us believe," Dougal spat. "But you would seem to be a lad of strong political opinions, eh?"

A dread filled Kurt. How far did Dougal mean to take this? "Is that not allowed in Scotland?" Kurt ventured warily before realizing that he didn't have any First Amendment rights here.

"Not according to the English," derided Dougal. "You've seen things on the road. You tell the Redcoats, and we'll be hung, drawn, and quartered."

Frustration boiled over into exasperation. This was Rachel Berry levels of insanity! "You're upset that I've seen things?!? _You're_ the one who made me come on the road! I wouldn't know anything about what you're doing if you left me at Leoch! I'm not prying into your affairs, YOU are conducting your affairs right in front of me and then getting mad I saw it! For the love of God, how does that make sense?!"

That only gave Dougal a half-second of pause before pressing on, "Even if yer no spy, ye're sowin' the seeds of doubt in our midst to undermine the cause."

He really did need to learn to keep his mouth shut, Kurt acknowledged. What did he hope to accomplish? Was he really trying to change history and if he did, would he have a present to get back to? All the sci-fi shows warned about the danger of messing with the timeline. The truth was Kurt was starting to care for these people, care about what happened to them. Kurt closed his eyes, sighing heavily. "If I really was against you, like you think I am, I wouldn't say anything at all. I'd let you walk right into a disaster of your own making."

"Doomed, are we?" Dougal sneered.

"Yes!" Kurt exploded. "You are bringing swords to a cannon fight! It doesn't take a spy to know that is not a recipe for success!" Staring in to Dougal's enraged face, Kurt shot back at him. "It may come as an enormous shock to you, but I don't want to see anyone die! Not even you!"

"My word," interjected a smooth and very English voice.

Dougal and Kurt turned as one. Above the creek's embankment was a line of about a half dozen or so British soldiers on horseback.

"We seem to have come upon you at an inopportune moment," drawled the officer.

To Kurt's alarm, Dougal's hand automatically went for his sword, but immediately thought better of it and dropped it back to his side, much to Kurt's relief.

The officer cocked his head at Kurt. "I know you."

Kurt's heart practically stopped in his chest. It was the man on the horse that shot at him. _Jacobite_ , he'd said then. He had seen his pajama pants. Oh God.

Dougal turned his head, but not to look at Kurt. He turned too and saw the foot soldiers who came up on their other side. They were surrounded.

"I'm sorry, have we met?" Kurt tried, but couldn't keep his voice from shaking.

The officer dismounted and approached them with a slight limp. "I am Jonathan Randall Esquire, Captain of His Majesty's Eighth Dragoons. At your service."

Kurt very much doubted that he meant to be at Kurt's service.

Randall continued, "About a month ago, you nearly unseated me from my horse."

Dougal was watching Kurt carefully. What could he do but bluff? "I beg your pardon, but I'm afraid you are mistaken, sir. I've never seen you before this day."

"It's a serious crime to lie to a British officer," Randall warned. "You were running with a band of cattle thieves."

"That's impossible," Dougal intervened. "The lad's from the British colonies in the Americas. He's a tailor retained by the Laird of MacKenzie clan. He's been in residence at Castle Leoch these last many months."

Captain Randall turned his attention to the big Scot. "You are Dougal MacKenzie, Colum's brother and his war chief."

"Aye, that I am," Dougal declared, proud and defiant.

"I have an excellent memory for faces, you see," Randall replied. "And I remember this boy's face quite distinctly, as well as the Stuart plaid he wore. You will come with me," he ordered to Kurt.

"No, he won't," Dougal answered with equal authority, and he stepped in front of Kurt.

The British soldiers responded by raising their guns. Kurt caught his breath. Was this how he was going to die, with Burt never knowing what happened to him?

"I dinna come here to fight," Dougal warned, "but you tell yer wee laddies to step aside before I lose my temper."

Randall smiled, unimpressed. "You have no right to that boy, not while he's being questioned by a British officer."

"He is a guest of Clan MacKenzie."

"He is a British subject first."

"You accused him of being party to raiders months ago and I have assured you that he was not. By right, he must be left with me for protection."

"I'm afraid I have further questions."

"Well. Ye won't be asking them on MacKenzie land. Not unless you want to start a war here, on this day."

Kurt could almost count the seconds with the beats of his heart while their fate waited on Captain Randall's response.

The English officer gave a small chuckle. "I suppose we're done for the day."

He returned to his horse and mounted it. "Be sure to deliver him to Fort William by sundown tomorrow. If he is not present at the appointed time, you will be accused of harboring a fugitive from English law, and you will be hunted down and punished, even unto death. War chief or not."

Captain Randall turned his horse and his men followed his lead. Dougal kept his stance in front of Kurt until the last soldier was out of sight, then he grabbed Kurt's arm and took him back to the camp. Kurt was still shaking when they got there.

He sank down by a tree for support while Dougal told the men what had just transpired. A heated debate in Gaelic ensued. Kurt let it blow by him, too consumed with this new predicament he had gotten himself into. It was beginning to feel like this time period was conspiring against him, looking for some way to killing one way or another. Fort William! That was where Blaine had been imprisoned. Where he had been whipped… by Captain Randall himself. He was having trouble breathing. Is this what a panic attack felt like?

"Up with ye, laddie." It was Murtagh, not unkindly, but insistent as he helped Kurt to his feet and led him over to the group.

"Dinna worry, Kurt, you need not see Captain Randall again," Ned assured him.

"But…" Kurt stared at the men around the fire. "He said he'd hunt you down if you didn't turn me over."

"An English officer cannot compel a Scottish person, unless there is proof a crime has been committed," Ned explained, "and even so, cannot force a Scottish subject from clan lands without permission from the laird concerned."

"But I'm not Scottish," Kurt pointed out the obvious flaw in their plan.

"Aye," Dougal agreed, "we'll have to change you into one."

There was a round of soft laughter from the MacKenzie men. Kurt eyed each one in turn. Blaine was flushed red with his eyes fixed on the ground. "Exactly what does that entail?" Kurt demanded to know.

"Marriage," Dougal said, plain and simple.

Kurt's mouth fell open. "I'm seventeen!" were the first words that came spilling out.

The men glanced at each other, failing to understand what that had to do with anything. Kurt mentally slapped himself, of course they married people off at twelve, probably. "I can't!" he stammered while he desperately fumbled about for a plausible reason.

Before he could think of one, though, Dougal roughly pulled him aside. "When Black Jack Randall says he'll question you, he means torture, ye ken? Spy or no, ye'll be tellin' him what he wants to know. And ye know too much! So either you marry, or I'll slit your throat for ye here and now and tell him I did it when you ran."

 _Well, since you asked so nicely_ … Kurt thought bitterly but knew he had no choice. "Fine!" he snapped. "But who am I supposed to marry by tomorrow? We didn't exactly bring any women with us." Then another thought occurred to him. "Wait, doesn't a woman take a man's name? Join his family?"

"Aye," Dougal stated. "And that's why you'll be marrying a man."

Kurt gaped at him. "Wh— how— Is that allowed?"

"Tis no common, right enough," Dougal acknowledged, "but special dispensations from the church can be arranged."

He didn't say 'for a price,' but Kurt caught his meaning all the same. He was spinning, everything was happening so fast. Gay marriage was only just becoming legal in his time, but somehow it was possible two hundred years ago! By the very religious factions that fought against it later?!? What the hell? And how did that not make the history books?

He was certainly racking up a lot of firsts. First bar fight and now first shot-gun wedding! "That still brings us back to who."


	9. A Marriage Takes Place

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Needless to say gay marriage did not exist in 1700s Scotland. I am exercising literary license as Kurt and Blaine being forced to marry is a crucial plot point in the Outlander story. I try to give a credible reason for a little known exception that was conveniently left out of the history books by authors who purposefully wanted to erase it from history.

 

Kurt was sitting on a low slope with his head in his hands when Blaine came and sat down beside him. He lifted his head to glower at Blaine. "What did he threaten you with?" When Blaine looked taken aback, Kurt said, "The British mean to torture me and Dougal will kill me to keep his secrets. What did he threaten you with?"

"He dinna have to threaten me," Blaine said.

Kurt frowned. "You're willing?!"

The boy shrugged. "Well, ye've mended my wounds more than once. I feel I owe ye something for all that. Besides, what kind of friend would I be if I left ye to that mad bastard Randall?"

"Just like that, then?" Kurt was put out at Blaine's affability. He knew that people in this time didn't marry for the same reasons. They were far more practical, they didn't always expect love especially in the beginning, but still! "This can't be what you want. To have to marry someone you barely know, who isn't from here. You're young. There must be someone else you'd rather… be with."

"Oh, ye mean, am I promised?" Blaine sounded almost surprised. "No. No, I'm not much of a prospect as a husband. I've nothing more than a soldier's pay to live on. Then there's the minor difficulty of a price on my head. I could be arrested and hanged at any time. I canna build a home for you, provide for you as I should."

Kurt could hear the apology in his words and felt a need to come to his defense. "Don't be so hard on yourself. It's not like I'm bringing anything to the marriage either."

Blaine chuckled. "Aye, we're a sorry match indeed." Kurt couldn't help a little laugh too.

A companionable quiet settled between them, but there was still so much that bothered Kurt that he had to know. "And you're… all right with… marrying a man?"

Color tinged Blaine's cheeks. "Aye, well… Dougal kens… most, I expect, ken that I… er…"

"Prefer boys?" Kurt supplied, and Blaine nodded.

"Aye. Do you?"

Kurt was caught off guard. "Yes. You're the first person to ask. Everyone just assumes I am."

"Ye see, I dinna expect to marry even without the price on my head," Blaine admitted.

"How is it that the church is willing to let men marry?" Kurt had to ask. "Isn't it considered a sin?"

"Oh, tis," Blaine acknowledged. "But, well, I suppose they'd rather such men be bound to each other than to… er…"

"Roam the countryside preying on unsuspecting Christian boys," Kurt filled in sourly.

"Something like that," Blaine admitted. "Of course, a generous donation to the church doesn't hurt either."

Kurt humphed. _Naturally!_ "And Dougal is willing to pay?"

"To keep his neck out of the hangman's noose, aye, and…" Blaine's voice trailed away.

"And…" Kurt prompted.

"It so happens my marrying you will… er, ease matters between us." Blaine was taking great pains to choose his words carefully.

"How would it…?" he started. The thing between Dougal and Blaine was who would succeed Colum. And then it dawned on him. "If you marry a man, no one will support you as laird."

Blaine's expression said it all. "So, ye see, ye'll be doing me a great favor."

"So glad to be of service," Kurt snorted. Well, that was it then. It all works out for everyone, ring the bells and start the marriage!

"Ah…"

"What?" Kurt demanded. What more could they want from him? For the first time, Blaine fidgeted uncomfortably. That couldn't be good.

"The only thing keeping you out of Randall's hands is the letter of the law," Blaine explained. "So for this to work, we have to follow the law to the letter."

Kurt waited for more. Was he expected to guess? "Aren't we doing that? We're getting married, what else is there?"

"The marriage must be consummated and witnesses to swear that they were present."

Kurt choked. "Are you saying— they'll—they'll—!"

"No, no," Blaine was quick to assure him. "They only have to be present in the building until… until it's done."

Kurt's mouth was hanging open and he shut it with a snap. Bad enough they wanted him to marry a perfect stranger, now they expected him to… to…! It was too much, he wouldn't do it!

Kurt was on his feet in a flash, but Blaine caught his hand and held on when he tried to tug free. "I won't! You can't make— You tell them… I don't care what you tell them. Lie!"

Blaine's expression was pained. "I would, sìthiche, but Dougal has already told me he expects it. The men have to swear truthfully. If they don't, all of this is for naught."

Kurt glared mutinously at him.

"And—"

"There's more?!?!" Kurt railed, pulling harder at his hand, but Blaine wouldn't let go. "Jesus, what more can you want from me?!?"

"There's no marriage of a man and a man, there's only marriage," Blaine was saying, but none of it made any sense. "A woman marries a man, she takes his name, becomes his family."

Then Kurt knew. Fury built up inside him and seethed out through his gritted teeth. "I'm the girl." Of course they saw him that way, everyone did. Why had he expected any different? "I'm your wife, your property!"

"No, Kurt!" Blaine insisted. "I never thought of you like that. You will never be that to me. I have only ever seen you as a man. It is what I have liked best about you. I'm sorry, Kurt, if I could change this I would, but I can't. The wedding… it's what we have to do to protect you, to protect everyone, but after that… our marriage is not for anyone else to tell us what it is. When we are alone, when it's just the two of us… we will say how it is between us, no one else. And you will have me. You will have my name, my clan, my family. And, if necessary, the protection of my body as well."

Kurt stared down at Blaine. Somewhere in all of this he had risen so that he was on his knee before Kurt, holding his hand with his, looking up at him with his stupid handsome face and stupid sincere eyes. This boy who could not be more than eighteen was offering himself to Kurt, promising to protect him from anything that would hurt him at the cost of himself. What had just a second ago been a nightmare, was now wavering on the cusp of being a dream.

***

Dougal and the MacKenzie men were loitering around the wagon, waiting no doubt to see if Blaine would bring Kurt around or for Kurt to murder Blaine. They all straightened up as they saw Kurt marching for them, a thunderous expression on his face. They braced themselves for the opening salvo that never came. Kurt grabbed the bottle from Dougal's hand and marched right passed them, taking a long drink.

***

Kurt considered himself a kick-ass wedding planner, but he had to give it up to the Scots. Or maybe it was just that when it came to throwing a party, they could whip one up with barely twenty-four hours notice.

By the time they reached the nearest town, Ned Gowan had drawn up the marriage contract, and Kurt was drunk off his ass. If he was old enough to get married to avoid going to prison, he was old enough to drink, he decided. He retired to his room at the inn where he drank some more and promptly passed out.

He was shaken awake by Murtagh, who was saying something that Kurt couldn't make out. His head was pounding, the sunlight from the windows was blinding him. "What?" he mumbled as he tried to lift his head. There were others in the room and one of them set down a full-length mirror.

"Oh God," he groaned. He looked like death warmed over. A disapproving woman that Kurt could only assume was the inn's housekeeper placed a wash basin on a nearby table.

A second woman entered carrying large bundle and a pair of buckled shoes which she set down on the bed. With her hands on her hips, she appraised Kurt. "Well, I certainly have me work cut out for meself. Ye look like a drowned rat," she pronounced and then shooed everyone else out of the room.

Kurt sat at the edge of the bed, concentrating on not throwing up, when a steaming cup was held in front of him. The scent was vaguely calming.

"Tea," the woman said. "Go on, drink, sweet lad. Ye'll feel better."

He did as he was told and the tea did help settle his rebellious stomach. When the woman asked his name, he mumbled it out.

"I'm Debra," she replied as she untied her bundle and shook out the clothes folded within it. "Debra Campbell, seamtress in these parts."

Kurt didn't protest as Debra washed his face. "Don't bother," he grumbled. "I'll look like a living corpse not matter what you do."

She humphed. "I've never met a man who didn't go to his own wedding as if he was being dragged off to the gallows."

Debra sat next to him, turning him away so she could brush his hair. "I was younger than you when I ran away from my wedding." Kurt turned his head to look at her in surprise, but she turned his head back so she could keep brushing. "My da wanted me to marry a swine of a man so I ran away."

As she dressed him, the woman told him how she left her farm in the Highlands with nothing but her clothes and came to this town. She stood Kurt up so she could pin the suit to fit him. She'd made it for the procurator fiscal, the local solicitor, she explained. He was about Kurt's height, but a bit heavier so Debra needed to take in the breeches and waist coat. There was no time to sew the alterations so she had to make do with pinning it. Plus the suit was on loan from the owner and had to be returned in the morning.

"What's he like?" she asked. "Yer lad?"

"You… you know?" When she nodded, Kurt looked warily at her. "And you're not… bothered by that?"

She considered it for a moment. "When I was a wee lass, I had to raise a new born calf. It was born white with pink eyes, ye ken."

"Albino?"

"Aye," she mumbled around a pin in her mouth. "The mother and the herd attacked it for being the wrong color. It wasna her fault, she was born different." Debra shrugged. "So… is he old and toothless?"

"No, he's my age."

"Ugly."

"No, he's... handsome, actually."

"Mean."

"No. He's kind."

"Och, sounds terrible."

Kurt made a face at the woman, who was biting back a smile. "We barely know each other."

"And there's no way to remedy that?" she teased.

"Are you married now?" Kurt asked, wanting to change the subject off of him.

"Aye," she said, and stood up, finished with her alterations. She picked up the neckcloth and set about wrapping it around his neck.

"Do you love him?"

"I wouldna call it love," Debra conceded. "I can abide him." At Kurt's downcast expression, she chuckled, "Dinna feel sorry for me. The Highlands are no place for a woman on her own. I found a man with a respectable position. Decent house. Some money put away. He's not much to look at. But that doesn't trouble me much."

"And you're happy with that?" Kurt wanted to know.

She grinned up at him. After arranging the folds of the neckcloth, Debra added a stickpin. "I'm free. Can do whatever I please." She stood up then. "Sometimes ye find yerself on a path you never expected. Doesn't mean it can't lead you to a bonny place."

Debra turned him to face the mirror. Kurt caught his breath. He hardly recognized himself. He could have graced the court at Versailles, the very image of an 18th century gentleman. The white woolen stockings hugged the shape of his calves. The fine weave of the breeches accentuated the long line of his legs. Like the breeches, the coat was such a soft light gray that it was almost silver. The waistcoat was white and embroidered with leaves in silver thread. Lace cuffs frilled out at his wrists that matched the cascade of the starched white jabot at his throat, embellished with a silver stickpin.

Debra gave an approving hum. "Looks better on ye than the one I made it for."

It was the nearly same color palette he used to decorate his basement bedroom. Not everyone could pull off Dior Gray, but it flattered his pale complexion, making him look and feel elegant.

Debra stood behind him with her hands on his shoulders. "When yer young, bonny, kind lad sees ye," she smiled at him, "he'll be a fair way to fallin' in love."

Kurt glanced at her through the mirror, really looking at her for the first time, he breathed, "Mom?"

She gave him a startled look.

"I'm sorry, you look a lot like my mother," he explained.

The hair under the linen cap that women wore was a chestnut brown, a shade or two darker than his own. Her eyes were blue but a little lighter. But her complexion… she had the same pale white skin as he did. Could she be his great great great — however many — great grandmother or aunt?

"Ah, she's a beauty, then," Debra laughed. She turned away and fetched a cloak to wrap around his shoulders.

"Is it that cold out?" Kurt protested. He loved his layers but he was already wearing several.

"For effect," Debra grinned at him. "Take it off when ye see yer sweet lad. Take his breath away, ye will."

"You have a flair for the dramatic," he noted, and she laughed again.

"The spice of life," she teased. "It'd be a dull world without it."

"Will you come with me?" Kurt asked, suddenly, then added, hastily, "I don't have any family here."

"All right. I love a wedding," she agreed, readily. She chucked on the chin when he still looked worried. "Ye act like love is supposed to find you. Maybe, yer supposed to find it."

Debra led Kurt out of the inn and down the streets to a little wooded area, where he vaguely recognized Dougal and Rupert and Ned and the others of their party and maybe a few others he didn't know. His nerves were getting the better of him again, and he was panicking internally.

There was a little stone church and out of its door stepped Blaine. Kurt's lips parted on a breath. A Scottish man in full Highland regalia was a sight to behold, but Blaine was magnificent. His unruly hair was brushed back, gleaming in the sunlight; he was astonishingly handsome. Over a dark green coat was draped his tartan plaid, pinned at his shoulder with a silver brooch. In his kilt and leather boots and broadsword belted at his waist, he cut such a romantic figure of a warrior that Kurt couldn't help reacting with a flurry of butterflies in his stomach.

Kurt was barely aware of the cloak being pulled from his shoulders. Blaine came up to him, his hazel eyes so intent on him it felt like he was drinking Kurt in. Then Blaine bowed deeply before him, rising with his hand over his heart like he was pledging, "Your servant, sir."

At any other moment, Kurt's silly, romantic heart would be squeeing in delight, sending him into giggles and coy smiles and blushes, but he was still caught up in a cocoon of surreal numbness and could only stare.

Kurt began to shake. This was happening. He struggled for breath. "I can't marry you," he gasped and was taken aback by the flash of hurt on Blaine's face. Stupidly he said, "I don't know your real name."

Blaine broke into a smile, bright like the sun. "It's Fraser. Bláan Devon Alexander MacKenzie Fraser."

"Kurt Elizabeth Hummel," he introduced himself, and held out his hand as if they were meeting for the first time. Blaine took it in both of his. In a strange way it felt like they were meeting just now. Kurt realized belatedly that the perpetual cloud coverage over Scotland had parted for this day and the sun was shining, warming Blaine's dark hair and face. There was such a kindness about him that made Kurt feel suddenly… safe, something he hadn't felt since… he didn't know when.

"Well, if you two are quite finished… Let's get on with it," Dougal cut in, dispelling the intimate moment between them.

Blaine offered his arm to Kurt and he took it and was led to the little stone chapel, but they didn't go in. A monk judging from his robes was standing in front of the closed wooden door. He held a Bible in his hands. When Blaine stopped them before him and took both his hands, Kurt realized they weren't going inside. The marriage vows would take place on the church's doorstep. He didn't know if that was customary or not, either way it appeared that Kurt's wedding was to be an outdoor one.

The monk spoke in Latin so the only thing Kurt followed was Blaine as he held his gaze with Kurt's and said, "I, Bláan Devon Alexander MacKenzie Fraser, take thee, Kurt Elizabeth Hummel to be my wedded wife to have and to hold from this day forth, for better or for worse, in sickness and in health, till death us do part."

Kurt chafed at the word "wife" but stayed silent because he saw the apology in Blaine's eyes as he said it and knew he didn't like it either. When it was his turn, he repeated the vow: "I, Kurt Elizabeth Hummel take thee, Blaine Devon Alexander MacKenzie Fraser to be my wedded husband. To have and to hold from this day forth, for better or for worse, in sickness and in health, till death us do part."

Then the monk asked, "Do you have a ring?"

To Kurt's surprise, Blaine answered promptly, "Aye."

These kinds of details Kurt always thought he would obsess over when it came time to plan his wedding for real but instead he drank so he didn't have to think of any of it. But it seemed Blaine did and he flushed a bit guiltily.

Blaine placed the ring on the leather-bound Bible and the monk spoke a Latin blessing as he waved an incense thurible over it, finishing with an "Amen." which Blaine repeated. Only then Kurt realized that Blaine had probably been raised Catholic. He had stepped out of the church when Kurt arrived. Had he been praying? This drove home how little they really knew about each other.

Blaine retrieved the blessed ring, looked at Kurt, and slid the ring onto his left hand. Kurt dropped his eyes down. It was such a plain ordinary thing, a heavy dark gray, it must have been iron, just a circle with a notch were the metal was soldered together. Had this been given to him as an engagement ring in his own time, he would have railed against its cheapness and possibly even thrown it back in the face of his proposer but he knew that this was likely all Blaine could afford, maybe hadn't been able to afford it but got it for Kurt anyway because he had so little to give to him and felt bad about it. He imagined few farmers or the like exchanged rings at all. And Kurt didn't even try to find one for Blaine and was suddenly embarrassed.

Once again, before Kurt could really dwell on that feeling, Dougal intruded. He came up to Blaine and drew his dirk. To Kurt's shock, Blaine pushed back the shirt's cuff and Dougal sliced across his wrist, spilling blood. And to his horror, Dougal grabbed his arm and cut him before he could summon up a protest. He just choked out a cry at the pain. Uncaring, Dougal joined their cut wrists together and tied them with a cloth.

Kurt looked up at Blaine who only responded with, "Say the words after me." Then he said something in Gaelic that sounded like _dis smear done mick cry_. Kurt blurted out, "What?"

Blaine repeated it more slowly and Kurt did his best to mimic it.

When it was done, the monk said, "Well then, go in peace."

And at that, he went over to Dougal to collect a small pouch of coins and left.

 _No kiss the bride?_ Kurt wondered. Of course not, he was and was not a bride.


	10. Revelations of the Bridegroom Chamber

 

The innkeeper had come by to retrieve the suit that had been on loan to Kurt, leaving him in his shirt. He was damned if he was going to wait in the bedroom for the bridegroom to find him in his "nightie". He retrieved his old breeches and put them on, not bothering to tuck in his shirt. He sat at a little table with a little mirror and stared at the face that didn't feel like his own.

The innkeeper had pointedly placed as small jar on the table before leaving. Kurt lifted the lid and dipped a finger in. It was oil. He flushed beet red. Lube. They really meant for them to…!

Think of anything but that… think… think about tomorrow, when it would be all over. Think nothing. People did this all the time and went on with their lives. No big deal. Just a random. He'd get back to his own time and all of this would be like a dream that would hardly seem real with the more years he could put between him and this.

The door hinges squeaked as it opened, the wood knocking against wood when it closed. Blaine was there in his kilt and shirt, the coat gone, returned to its owner too? He carried his sword and dirk in his hand.

The celebration at inn's taproom below was in full swing, the laughing and carousing only slightly muffled by the door. At least someone was enjoying themselves.

"Did ye get yer fill of food?" Blaine asked. "I could bring you up something."

"No," Kurt answered dully. "I'm fine… thank you."

There was a tenseness in the silence. Blaine was obviously searching for something to say. Kurt jumped in instead. "How about a drink?"

Blaine hesitated only a second. "Aye… aye."

Kurt poured out two glasses. He meant to down his, but Blaine surprised him by making a toast to him. "To you, your strength of spirit, your wit, your many talents, and your astonishing…" Blaine stumbled here as if he started to say one thing than changed it… " _bhrèagha_ … er, comeliness. Kurt Fraser."

He stood there not knowing what to say. He knew that Blaine was trying to pay him a compliment but Kurt was alarmed at hearing his married name. He was married! Part of him wanted to say that it didn't count. This was all AU verse not canon so it didn't count, right? He was doing what he had to to survive and get back home and then all of this would be erased like some bad vacation.

Blaine clinked his glass to Kurt's and Kurt swallowed his in one gulp. He grabbed the bottle and refilled the glasses. He tossed back that glass too and another for himself while Blaine watched. He hoped he wasn't expecting Kurt to toast him because he couldn't think of a single word. He knocked back that glass and might have gone for anther except Blaine reached out and gently touched his arm.

"You needn't be afraid of me, Kurt," he said softly. "I wasna planning to suddenly force myself on you."

Kurt closed his eyes. "I never thought you would."

"Do you want me to go downstairs and lie?" Blaine asked.

"Yes!"

"I would," Blaine soothed, "but Dougal is expecting me to do it. He knows I'd try to protect you."

Kurt dropped his eyes. He knew that. Blaine had taken that punishment for a girl he hardly knew. He didn't doubt that Blaine would step in front of him too. Everyone knew he would.

Blaine's hand skimmed down Kurt's arm until he took his hand. "Come," he whispered and led Kurt to the bed. He sat down and tugged on Kurt's arm to sit next to him.

"We barely know each other. Ask me anything and I promise I will answer truthfully." When Kurt looked skeptically at him, he reassured, "Dinna worry. I know there are things you are keeping secret. I willna ask you about that."

"There you go again," Kurt gave a quiet laugh. "Being all kind and understanding."

"Och, such flattery! You'll turn my head," Blaine teased and laughed when Kurt elbowed him. "Go on, then. Ask me anything."

"Murtagh," Kurt said immediately. "He is always near you, protecting you."

"Aye," Blaine acknowledged. "He's a Fraser, a clansmen… and my godfather. After I was born he swore an oath to my mother to always look out for me."

"That's it," Kurt murmured. "He's more uncle to you than either of your uncles."

"What else?" Blaine prompted.

"Your mother?"

And so it went on for the next few hours. Blaine talked about his family. His mother was Colum and Dougal's older sister, Aileen MacKenzie—Ellen, who married Brian Fraser. Both passed away now. Cooper was his older half-brother from his father's first wife and was now the Fraser laird at Lallybroch, the home he grew up in. Blaine's knowledge of his family tree was stunning in the breadth and depth. Kurt could only name his first cousins at best and he had only about half of Blaine's.

Somewhere in the middle of this, Kurt scooted back on the bed to lean back against the wall to watch Blaine who was on his feet, regaling him with the colorful history of his family. Like all Scots, Blaine was a natural born storyteller. Kurt's nerves slowly calmed and even faded away. He let his mind drift with his own thoughts. Blaine was like sunlight, he decided. He radiated warmth and joy and good humor and kindness and generosity and… just light. He was easy on the eyes, a delight really with the infectious enthusiasm of a puppy. Most people who were as good looking as Blaine knew it, even when they were trying not to be conceited about it, but Blaine seemed wholly unaware of how handsome he was.

If Blaine had been a boy at school, he would have easily been the best looking. Kurt was sure he would have crushed on him at first sight. If Blaine smiled at him, talked and joked with him… like he was now… if he asked him out, Kurt would immediately start outfit planning for their next five dates. He'd doodle Blaine's name in his notebooks and gush on the phone with Mercedes for hours. And after dating for a while Blaine would ask him to be his boyfriend. They would hold hands and kiss and make-out… watching Blaine, his animated face always showed what he was feeling at any given moment. Wouldn't he want Blaine to be his first?

Blaine came and sat at the edge of the bed still talking about some great great uncle or something when he said something in French.

"You speak French?" Kurt blurted out.

"Oh, aye, some Latin too," Blaine replied, thinking nothing of it.

"Say something in French," Kurt said then.

Blaine looked at him quizzically. "What should I say?"

"I don't know, anything. Just talk… in French," Kurt was suddenly bossy.

And Blaine did and, wow, that was hot. His boyfriend speaking French was really hot!

Kurt moved over to Blaine and reached out his hand to touch his cheek. Blaine instantly fell silent. He didn't want to think about it so he just did it. Kurt pressed his lips to Blaine's. It was a simple, brief kiss. As soon as their lips parted, Kurt was aghast at his audacity, which he'd like to blame on the alcohol, but knew wasn't entirely true. Blaine didn't give him any time to regret his action, though, as he was kissing him now.

One kiss led to another, cautious and tentative. For something that was non-verbal, Kurt was stunned how much was being spoken between them. He could feel Blaine's nervousness and was relieved not to be the only one, but he also felt his eagerness, his obvious delight at kissing Kurt and that sent tingles curling all up inside his chest and stomach. What began as pecks of the lips lingered longer and longer until they were breathing heavily when they separated. It was awkward as they tilted their heads for a better angle and got it wrong and bumped noses and laughed at their own clumsiness. Then suddenly their mouths slotted together in a fit so perfect they forgot their laughter and their nervousness. Kisses melded into more kisses without the need to part, just sliding into the next, exploring now, and yeah, Kurt really liked kissing.

He liked it so much his tongue reached out to lick at Blaine's upper lip. The boy choked and flinched back, knocking Kurt back into reality.

"Sorry! I—" he stammered, thinking he crossed a line, but Blaine's eyes were dark and wanting.

"Again!" he rasped and caught Kurt's mouth urgently. This time his hand came up to cup Kurt's cheek and slide around to the back of his neck.

Mindlessly, Kurt licked at Blaine's lips again and the boy groaned and opened his mouth to him. Kurt's cheeks flushed hot and he ventured in tentatively. When Blaine's tongue stroked along side his, the heat spread down through his body. He was pretty sure the next moan was his when Blaine pulled Kurt to him and tilted them both until they were lying side by side on the bed.

The kisses grew sloppier, wetter and needier. Kurt panted dazedly when they suddenly stopped. Blaine nuzzled at his cheek, his breath hot against his skin. Kurt gripped at Blaine's shirt, not really sure where this was going but willing to find out. Blaine's mouth opened on the corner of his jaw and slowly moved below his ear. He explored there before trailing down the line of his neck. It became harder to breathe. Kurt had to suck in oxygen. His whole body flushed hot. Tingles burst low in his belly and zinged down his thighs. Everything pooled down into his groin and he knew he was hard. The building tension made his body want to squirm, but Kurt was doing his best to hold himself still.

The mouth at his throat left suddenly and Blaine surged over him to recapture his mouth.

"Ow!" Kurt cried out against his lips, and Blaine pulled back.

"I hurt you?"

Kurt was panting. "The belt. It's digging into me."

Blaine looked down, apparently needing a second to comprehend. He rolled away, his hand undoing the offending belt buckle and flung it away. Then he was back, his mouth back on Kurt's, his weight settling over him, pressing him into the bedding. Kurt's arms wound around Blaine's shoulders. As Blaine moved against him, he felt him hard against his leg and his own cock twitched. A dozen different sensations flooded through Kurt at once and he couldn't decipher them all. Part of him wanted to squirm away, another part of him wanted to grab Blaine closer. They were both clothed and he was both glad of it and annoyed at the irritating hindrance and wanted it gone. Before he could decide what he wanted, Blaine moved again and now their hips were fitted together. Every thought in his head shattered apart as his body took over.

Kurt tore his mouth from Blaine and flung his head back. Blaine's mouth found a new home on Kurt's neck and latched on. Kurt's body strained against Blaine, his legs shifting under the weight of Blaine's, widening, and Blaine was between them. Nothing but a few layers of clothes separated them as they rubbed on each other with increasing desperation. The few times that Kurt tried masturbating, it had only left him feeling awkward and embarrassed. It was nothing like this, needy and wanting and rushing headlong into the storm. His brain made a futile effort to catch up and take control, but couldn't. He gave up and clung to Blaine. In seconds he was coming, then his body sagged into the bed while he panted, his heart battering at his ribs. He was sweaty and Blaine was shuddering above him and slumped on top of him. Thankfully Blaine rolled off to the side of him and it was just their heavy breathing and the crackling of the fire.

After a bit, though, Blaine spoke, "Kurt?"

Kurt was afraid Blaine wanted to talk about what they'd just done and he so didn't. "Sticky," he mumbled instead. Because, yeah, he came in his pants and it was starting to dry.

Blaine immediately sat up. He turned back to Kurt but didn't quite look him in the eye. He gave Kurt's breeches a tweak. "Take these off," he said, and he got off the bed to shirk out of his kilt. He was in his long shirt and… boots. Oh my God, Kurt thought, I just made out and came with a boy wearing boots! Did that make him kinky? Kinky Boots. Every irrational thought ricocheted in his head. He ruthlessly tried to get himself together and concentrated on unbuttoning all the ridiculous buttons on his pants before Blaine offered to help.

That left him in nothing but his long shirt and stockings. God, he was wearing stockings! Kurt pulled a blanket over him while Blaine gathered up their soiled clothes and went to the wash stand and poured water into the basin. He was back with a wet cloth. Kurt snatched it from him, red-faced. Ever the thoughtful gentleman, Blaine kept his back to Kurt while he cleaned himself.

Soon, Blaine had their kilt and breeches hanging over a couple chairs to dry before the fire to which he added another log.

"Do you… would you like a drink?" he asked quietly.

 _Yes. No. I don't know_. Kurt shook his head. Blaine stood there, looking about rather helplessly and suddenly he looked very young and unsure. Dammit, how did he do that? Over the years, Kurt perfected the art of building walls around himself. They kept the world at bay and everyone in it. But Blaine with his sincere eyes and open heart had slipped right past all his defenses without even trying.

Sighing, Kurt lifted up the blanket that covered him and Blaine broke into a radiant grin. Like a happy puppy he was right up next to Kurt and Kurt snorted out a laugh.

"Yer laughing at me," Blaine pouted.

"No," Kurt lied and laughed again. "Maybe… a little… a wee bit."

Blaine grinned and Kurt's stomach fluttered. He was flirting with a boy and he was flirting back. Blaine surged up for a kiss but stopped just short, looking at Kurt wanting to know it was okay, but Kurt could only stare back breathless. Blaine did kiss him. And it was gentle and sweet and tender and Kurt melted into it.

"When ye kissed me like that, _sìthiche_ ," Blaine whispered when he pulled back, "well, maybe yer no so sorry to be marrying me after all."

Kurt blushed. He was slightly irked at being reminded they were married. It was ruining his fantasy of being boyfriends who happened to find themselves home alone and the parents not coming back too soon. But he lost his train of thought when Blaine's fingers lightly traced his cheekbone and down to his lips.

" _B_ _hrèagha_ ," he breathed. His touch was reverent.

"What… you said that before," Kurt whispered. "What does it mean? Comely." It sounded so much like homely that it was hard to take as the compliment he was sure Blaine meant it as.

This time it was Blaine who blushed, and Kurt decided instantly that he liked that look on him. "What? Is that not right?" Kurt prodded when Blaine didn't explain.

He hesitated, ducking his head. "Beautiful," he finally admitted. "I didna ken if that's something you call a man. I've never seen a man as beautiful as you."

Kurt caught his breath, started to say something, didn't, and then said, "Oh." He had quietly dreamed to himself of one day meeting a boy who would think so, but he thought that day was far off and now that it was here, he didn't know what to say.

Blaine chuckled. "I've embarrassed you."

"No," Kurt denied and when Blaine laughed again, Kurt gave him a little shove. Blaine's eyes lit up with mischief and Kurt thought he might have inadvertently invited a Scot to a tussle match which he was sure he wouldn't turn down so he blurted out, "What was that Gaelic part? At the wedding?"

Grinning, Blaine accepted the change of subject. He repeated the words and translated them as he went. "You are blood of my blood and bone of my bone. I give you my body that we two may be one. I give you my spirit till our life shall be done."

Kurt wanted to smirk. It sounded like it came straight out of fan-fiction but he was utterly distracted by Blaine's thumb that stroking the inside of his wrist just below the healing cut. The only thing he could think of was the rise and fall of his chest with each breath he took. Blaine kissed him.

There was a kind of familiarity to their kisses now. They knew how their lips felt, how to fit them together and move. Yet still the fluttery tingles inside but in no particular hurry this time. Kurt relaxed into them, curving his arms around Blaine, sliding his fingers into his curls. He hummed into the kiss.

***

 

The weak light of early dawn shone through the inn's bedroom window when Kurt woke. Blaine was fast asleep beside him, naked as a jay bird. A flutter went through him as memories of their wedding came back to him and he flushed hotly.

He wanted to bury himself under the covers and lose himself back into sleep, but he was annoyingly awake. Kurt hissed as he sat up, sore, and blushed harder. Wrapping a blanket around himself, he ventured to the door and opened it carefully.

All was quiet and dark downstairs. The wedding party had finally dispersed. Kurt slipped out and down the steps to the taproom. The fire in the fireplace was out. The long wooden tables were littered with the remains of last night's celebration. A cat was happily chewing on some leftover meat.

Kurt picked through the scraps looking for something salvageable and decided on a jug of wine and half a loaf of bread. It would have to do until the inn's staff made breakfast. Kurt was heading back when the inn door opened and Dougal entered.

"Master Fraser," Dougal called out.

Kurt froze. Master Fraser? Dear God, he was Kurt Fraser now. "I would think you'd be passed out with the others." Kurt's voice shook a little.

"I had a wee journey to make," Dougal replied. "I'm just back from seeing Captain Randall. I shared with him the happy news that you'll no longer be at his beck and call."

Tensing, Kurt tried for calm. "What did he say?"

"There are likely limits even to your tolerance for foul language," Dougal snorted. Clearly he enjoyed sticking it to the good Captain of the Dragoons.

Kurt wished that this news would settle the queasiness in his stomach. "That's it, then? He'll drop the matter?"

"He's no happy about it, but I expect so." There was no concern in Dougal's voice. He was in a good mood, having gotten everything he wanted. "He's got more important things to worry about than chasing after one stray outlander. And he's got better sense than to rile Colum by kidnapping his newest family member."

Kurt pressed his lips together and nodded. "That's comforting to know."

He went back up the stairs as Dougal restarted the fire. At least that crisis had been averted. Now he only had to contend with the riot of feelings he had for his new husband.


	11. Reckonings

 

Kurt, it seemed, had worried over nothing. Blaine was an open book. From the moment he woke, his affection for Kurt was plain as day. Every time Blaine's eyes fell on Kurt, his smile took on a whole new quality of warmth. He glowed with happiness and no amount of teasing from the MacKenzie men could dampen it.

It was also infectious. Kurt basked in the attention that Blaine lavished on him, rarely more than a few feet away and always finding excuses for little touches. Kurt couldn't help but return the smiles and blush when Blaine's gaze turned heated. But there was no real chance to act on those rushes of arousal, as they were never alone.

Kurt's resentment for Dougal deepened when he insisted they get back on the road the very next morning. Ever thoughtful, Blaine placed a furred blanket over the saddle and rode behind him and kept the horse at the slowest gait possible without falling completely behind the rent party. This meant they were back to camping and it was made clear that the men did not want to "hear goings-on" from them at night, as if Kurt ever would with a half dozen people no more than a few feet away. Nevertheless, Kurt found himself cuddled up next to Blaine under the blankets every evening, whispering and giggling like it was sleep-away camp. They were so disgustingly besotted with each other that they managed to annoy every last member of the rent party.

One evening after dinner, they sat apart from the group. Kurt snuggled up to Blaine who wrapped his plaid around both of them. Under the cover, Blaine's hand idly played with Kurt's, his fingers stroking Kurt's. Blaine ventured a question, softly spoken so as not to be overheard. "Is it usual… what it is between us when I touch you, when you lie with me? Is it always so between two… is it so between even a man and woman?"

"It's not like I have a lot of experience," Kurt began. "You being the first…" Kurt thought about all the high school couples and their tumultuous relationships, even the special ones who seem to be more mature than most. He assumed his parents had been happy in love, from what vague memories he still had and the rare moments when Burt reminisced about his mom. But he knew what Blaine meant, there was something between them that did not feel ordinary. Was it the rush of newfound infatuation? It felt more, deeper. Was it because they entered into this backwards? Physical intimacy first that opened the door to emotional intimacy and giddiness. As far back as Kurt could remember, he'd been in love with love and daydreamed of falling head over heels in love with his one and only. But were soulmates really real or wishful thinking like white knights in shining armor? Yet how else to explain what was blossoming between he and Blaine? There was awkwardness as they were still learning each other but more so was this feeling of rightness, how perfectly they… fit. How easy it was to believe it was because they were made for each other.

Kurt let his hand slide into Blaine's so simply, so right. Had he traveled through time itself just so he could meet Blaine? Safe and secure and contented in his arms, Kurt could believe it to be true. "No," he breathed, "this isn't usual. It's special."

He could feel Blaine's smile against his temple.

***

They reached the next village and the locals lined up to pay their rent. With nothing to do, Kurt decided to tend his horse. Brimstone, Auld Alec called her. An alarming name for a horse. "It's like calling a tall man wee," the stable master assured him. Kurt wasn't sure this wasn't the Scots trying to play him dirty, but the mare proved to be sweet and gentle. Just as Auld Alec warned him, the horse had a love for her barn stall and tried to turn back home if he didn't mind the reins. Kurt found himself developing a fondness for her.

He never got to the horse, though, for he was intercepted by Blaine who grasped his hand and hurried him out of the village and into the woods.

"Where are we going?" Kurt wanted to know, when they were well out of eyesight.

Blaine pressed Kurt up against a tree and kissed him soundly. His eyes were dark with mischief when they parted. "No one will miss us for the next couple of hours."

For days, they had only allowed themselves little touches, occasionally little kisses under the cover of night that they didn't dare let grow out of control. The longer this went on, though, the more a tension strained between them. Now that their bodies knew the pleasure of the other, there was no denying they wanted more.

Kurt let his eyes roam over Blaine's hopeful face. He grinned wickedly and grabbed Blaine, tugging him in for another kiss until Blaine was smiling against his lips. Hand-in-hand they ran off to find a secluded place, somewhere comfortable to lie down.

Kurt was laughing when they broke through the trees and collided straight into Blaine, who had stopped unexpectedly. Before he could ask, his eyes followed up a hill. Upon its crest were two X's. Kurt gasped, for there were two men tied to them.

***

Kurt held his hand over his mouth, both from the foul stench and from the bile rising up the back of his throat.

"Bloody bastards," Angus cursed.

Kurt knew without being told that this was the work of British soldiers. The men on the wooden X's had their shirts torn open and the letter T was carved into their chests with a knife. Traitor... Treason, Kurt guessed.

Blaine had tried to convince Kurt to stay in the village when they went to find Dougal, but he refused to leave Blaine. Partly because he didn't want to be left alone while rumors spread like wildfire among the villagers and because he was afraid of what the MacKenzies would do, like rush off for a little payback. And Blaine would go with them.

"Cut them down," Dougal gave the order.

They knew these men were Clan Campbell and it was decided they would take them to their families for a proper burial. They burned the wooden X's and wrapped the bodies, placing them in one of the wagons. It was more than a day's journey to the isolated little farm. A grim silence had descended over the party while a seething anger simmered below the surface. Even Blaine was stone-faced.

The farmer's home was a simple round structure of low walls and cone-shaped sod roof, only an opening for a door. Whoever lived here was obviously a poor dirt farmer. A single man worked the patch of lumpy rough ground that looked like it was hand-tilled instead of flat smooth rows. He came to meet them carrying a hoe. His clothes were rough undyed homespun, his face heavily bearded and leathery from long hours in the sun.

He glared at the MacKenzie men. "I ain't got no but a few scrawny chickens."

"We're no the Watch," Dougal responded. "Where's yer wife?"

"Fever took her more'n fifteen years ago," the farmer answered. "It's just me."

Kurt stayed on his horse while the others dismounted. As the men went to the wagon to bring out the body of the younger man, Dougal went to the farmer and spoke quietly to him. The farmer made no reaction except to grow harder in his glare. They laid the body on the ground at the farmer's feet. He only nodded stiffly to say that was his boy.

Dougal offered the man some money and help burying his son, but the proud Scotsman refused both. "He's my son, I'll do it meself."

Kurt was quiet throughout this and as they rode away. He looked back over his shoulder. The old farmer was slumped now, gripping onto his hoe for support. It was like a punch to the solar plexus. Kurt tore his eyes away, finding it hard to breathe as his chest tightened. The rest of their journey was a blur to Kurt.

Burt. That man left to bury his only child alone could be his own father. And Kurt had forgotten him! How much time was passing back home? Had the police given up trying to find him? How much money, that he didn't have, was Burt spending to stay longer in Scotland? How long before even he had to give up and go home? Or would it be too much and suffer another heart attack? Only to be forgotten by his only son! He hadn't thought of escaping in weeks, he was so besotted by Blaine. Burt could be in a hospital… or worse while he was making heart eyes with Blaine!

He didn't notice that the group had come to a stop until Blaine was standing there, reaching up to help him down. Kurt brushed his hand away and dismounted on his own. Blaine looked at him questioningly, but Kurt only looked away.

Blaine apparently let the matter drop because he said instead, "You'll stay here with Willie." Willie was even younger than Blaine, this was the lad's first trip on the road.

"What? Why?" Kurt snapped, not really sure why he cared one way or another. He was just mad.

Blaine knew this but didn't understand why. He proceeded warily. "Tis best this way," he said. "The next man's family have no love for the English."

Kurt eye-rolled. "I. Am. Not. English!"

"A distinction this family is no likely to make when we bring back their dead kin… and in the manner of his dying," Blaine tried to explain but Kurt was past caring.

"How many times to I have to tell you—!" Kurt yelled.

"Yer still an outlander, Kurt!" Blaine yelled back.

Somehow that hurt like a slap in the face and it must have shown, because Blaine instantly regretted it. Kurt huffed and turned away. They were in a weird place. They knew each other well enough now to know what the other was feeling, but not well enough to understand why.

"Please, Kurt, just stay here," Blaine's voice was softer now. "We'll be back as soon as we can."

"Fine," Kurt gritted out.

Blaine hesitated. "Don't…"

"Don't what?" Kurt dared Blaine to finish that sentence. When he didn't, Kurt answered for him. "I said fine." And with that, Kurt turned to take care of Brimstone.

He left Blaine standing there staring after him. Dougal snapped at him next and Blaine reluctantly went to mount his own horse.

Willie sensed Kurt's mood as well and kept his distance while Kurt paced back and forth. After a bit, Willie called to him. "Oy." When Kurt stopped to glare at him, Willie said, "If ye need me, I'll just be taking care of some… personal business."

The boy jerked his thumb at the trees behind him. Kurt rolled his eyes. "Go at least fifty yards away and down-wind."

"Aye," the boy agreed and walked off with a look back.

Dougal still didn't trust him. And he shouldn't. Kurt had allowed himself to get distracted, but he wouldn't again. Frustrated, Kurt stalked off into the trees, reviewing his last plan in his mind. It could be different this time. Kurt knew how to ride a horse. With his mind occupied with new possibilities, he came upon it so unexpectedly that it seemed like he had conjured it through sheer force of will. Through the trees was a hillside and atop it… Craigh na Dun.

Kurt hadn't even tried to keep track of where the rent party had been traveling and suddenly he was back where all of this had started. This was it! He'd never have a better chance. With only one glance back, Kurt broke into a run.

By the time he reached the hill, he was out of breath. It had been a mile or two and fear dogged his every step, not knowing just how long he had before the MacKenzie men returned and began hunting him. It wasn't the only thing slowing him. Blaine. How badly was he hurting him, leaving him this way? He was young, he would get over it, get on with his life. Kurt stopped halfway up the hill, his legs shaking. He told himself the pain in his chest was from running all this way. His dad. He had to get back to Burt, that's all that mattered. Yet he turned to look back the way he came. Somehow he knew. He would never find what he found with Blaine again.

At first it sounded like the wind. Someone shouting from far away. Kurt looked around, afraid he had been caught but there was no one. Then he heard it. His name! Burt was calling him.

"Dad?" Kurt whispered, then louder, "Dad!" He was running, scrambling up the hill. "Dad! I'm coming! Wait! Dad!"

He was through the outer ring of stones. The tall center stone was right there. He reached out…


	12. Vows

 

Kurt was screaming.

"No! NO! NO! Let me go!" He didn't stop screaming or struggling against the hands pulling him further and further from the stones until he was back-handed. When he glared up at the man, it wasn't Dougal or any of the men.

They were British soldiers.

They demanded his name. Kurt only said he was a MacKenzie. He was back-handed again, hard enough to knock him to the ground.

"I am the nephew of Colum MacKenzie," Kurt growled, which was true. He just left out the in-law part. "…laird of the MacKenzie clan. You are on MacKenzie land. Let me go!"

That gave the men pause as they glanced uncertainly between them. After a muttered exchange, they decided to let the garrison commander decide.

So Kurt's hands were bound behind his back and he was marched off by the patrol soldiers. Thank God for the lack of modern communication. They couldn't possibly know who he was, no chance of a photo of him circulating around. He might just be able to bluff his way out of this.

There might not be cellphones in 1743, but there was gossip that spread as fast as the wind. News had reached the garrison commander that Captain Randall was looking for a colonist from the Americas and Kurt couldn't fake a Scottish accent to save his life… and that might be the thing that cost him. The commander, Brigadier General Sir Oliver Lord Thomas, Knight of the Bath and commanding officer of the British Northern Army, was so clearly titled nobility in his powdered wig and far too smooth accent that sneered whenever he said Randall's name. He didn't like the man. Low-ranked who had the temerity to rise above his station, Kurt guessed. Yet the commander gave the order to send Kurt to Fort William to be interrogated.

"I am a MacKenzie," Kurt insisted. "You cannot remove me from MacKenzie land without the laird's permission. It's the law!"

Thomas gave Kurt a withering look. "The British _are_ the law."

He dismissed Kurt with a wave of the hand and as he was dragged away, Kurt wished the general would be serving in America in thirty years time and picked off by a farm boy with a dead-eye aim.

" _Next thing I knew I was trussed up with the chickens_ ," was what Blaine had told him.

There were no chickens for company, poor or otherwise, but Kurt was trussed up in the back of a wagon on his way to Fort Williams. Blaine had managed to escape, but Kurt wasn't so sure if he would. If he didn't find away to escape before arriving at Fort William, he'd have a set of matching scars on his back!

Kurt sat propped up against a wooden crate. Though the wagon had a canvas covering over the top, it was open at the back. In full view of the two horsemen bringing up the rear, Kurt was watched at all times. He twisted so that he could look out the front. With his body blocking his tied hands, he rubbed the ropes against the edge of the crate. It wasn't long before his back began aching and his wrists felt the rope-burn, but he kept going.

Did he have a prayer to outrun the soldiers if he could get free? Unlikely, they were on horse back. But they didn't have any dogs. If he could get out of eye sight long enough maybe he could find a hiding place in the brush… maybe…

That was when the gunshot went off. Kurt was knocked into the crate as the wagon jolted to a stop. There were shouts and return fire from someone nearby. Kurt flung himself down. He didn't want to get hit by a stray bullet. Outside, horses neighed as they stamped about and then they were galloping off. Fear gripped Kurt and he pulled at the ropes at his wrists, but they only dug into his flesh, refusing to budge.

There was a shout and scuffling and clanging of metal. Kurt struggled harder to free himself. Then a face appeared at the back of the wagon. It was Willie!

He shouted, "He's here!"

"Blaine!" Kurt cried when he joined Willie.

Blaine climbed in and drew his dirk. He didn't have a word for Kurt, not even a smile. Instead he cut the ropes at his feet and hands. Then he was dragging Kurt out. It was just the three of them and one soldier lying face down in the dirt road. Off to the left was the sounds of a skirmish and another gunshot.

Dougal and the others had drawn off the guards so Blaine and Willie could rescue him. They ran off in the opposite direction where they had left their horses tied to a tree. Still Blaine said nothing as he hoisted Kurt up into the saddle and swung up behind him. And they were off.

They didn't slow until they were some distance away. Blaine and Willie stopped their horses to let them catch their breaths while they listened for sounds of pursuit. Willie grinned at Blaine who nodded back. They nudged their horses forward, but at a walk this time.

Willie passed Blaine a leather flask who passed it on to Kurt. Kurt took it gratefully and drank greedily. He was shaking so badly that Blaine pulled his plaid loose and wrapped it around him. How many times had they done this? He couldn't think now. He sagged back against Blaine, who was still silent. He was mad. Of course, he was mad. He'd have to deal with that, but it could wait. Right now he was safe in Blaine's arms and that's all that mattered.

"How did you know where to find me?" Kurt finally asked minutes later.

"Willie saw the patrol take you. There's only one place the British would take you," Blaine said simply.

"How did you know I was in _that_ wagon?"

"I didna. But there's only one road to Fort William. We attacked the first wagon to come along."

Kurt knew they would come after him, but he didn't think they would know where to look until it was too late. Thank God he had been delayed at the garrison to give them time to set up their ambush.

Before long they arrived at some old ruins by a stream. There Ned Gowan waited with the rent wagons. They had barely arrived before Dougal and the others joined them. The men were joking among themselves about their latest brush with the Redcoats. It was all in Gaelic, something they hadn't done in weeks. For Kurt's sake, they spoke in English, and now, he suspected, because of him, they had gone back to excluding him again.

Dougal pulled along side Blaine's horse. Uncle and nephew had a heated exchange. Kurt didn't need Dougal's glares in his direction to know it was about him. Or that Blaine was defending him. Their marriage should have removed the contention between them, but now because of Kurt, it was back. Dougal gave Blaine a hard stare, saying one thing more before turning his mount around.

The party set off again. He and Blaine lagged behind in silence all the way to the town where they took lodgings at another inn. Kurt stewed in his own thoughts. He felt bad that he'd gotten caught, forcing the MacKenzies to come to his rescue and now he was on the outs with all of them. He felt bad for putting all of this on Blaine. And he felt bad that he failed again to get back to his dad. He'd come so close! When would he get another chance? Maybe… maybe it was time to tell Blaine? Maybe not all of it, just enough for him to understand that he needed to go home. Blaine was kind, surely he would understand. He would cease to be a problem for the MacKenzies and Blaine… Blaine could get on with his life. The life he should have had before Kurt stepped out of time.

So why did it hurt so much? The longer he stayed, the more he got tangled up in this time and with these people. The sooner he left the better, he told himself and resolved to do it. He would tell Blaine.

***

In unspoken agreement, Blaine and Kurt went straight up to their room, skipping dinner.

When the door was closed, Blaine turned to face Kurt. "Did they hurt ye?"

Kurt shook his head. So okay, he decided he'd tell Blaine, but how? How to say this without sounding like he was barking mad?

But Blaine spoke first. "I'm waiting for you to say something. Anything that approaches an apology."

Kurt expected Blaine to be angry but something about what he said or how he said triggered his own anger. He'd been to hell and back again in one day, a roller coaster of emotions and Blaine wanted an apology?! Not two seconds ago he had been ready to give one but instead he lifted his chin. Did Blaine forget that Kurt was being held against his will? Why should he have to apologize for escaping? "For what?" Kurt snapped defiantly.

"You deliberately disobeyed me," Blaine accused. "I told you to stay put!"

"Obey?" Kurt practically choked on the word. "I don't take orders from you!"

"Aye, ye do. I'm yer husband!"

Kurt seethed. "And I'm what? Your _wife_? Your property?"

"Ye ken what I meant!"

"Oh aye, I do," Kurt mocked the Scottish bur.

"You put us all in jeopardy, Kurt! It was God's own grace, no one was killed coming after you," Blaine shot back. "All because you had to run off. Now we're all on the run. The British will be looking high and low for us."

Kurt hadn't thought of it like that. Even if he had made it to the stones and gotten back to his own time, they still would have come after him, still would have ambushed the British looking for him. And when they didn't find him? How far would they have gone? How far would Blaine have gone? Blaine, who had sworn to protect him with his life if need be. Would he have gone to Fort Williams? That thought took all the fire out of his anger.

"I… I didn't mean for that to happen," Kurt said. "I'm sorry for that."

"I didna know how it is in the colonies but here when a man amongst us had put the rest in danger, as you did, he would have likely had his ears cropped, or been flogged, if not killed outright."

"Is that what Dougal wanted?" Kurt recalled their argument back at the ruins.

"You've done the men wrong and you must answer for it," Blaine said. "You have to be punished and it's my job to do it."

Kurt tensed. "Punished how?"

Blaine unbuckled his belt and slipped off the dirk, putting the long dagger aside. He held the leather strap between both hands.

"You're going to whip me?!" Kurt's mouth dropped open.

"Nay, no that," Blaine shook his head.

Kurt frowned. "Spank me?" he realized. "You wouldn't dare!"

***

When Kurt walked the hallways of McKinley, his outfits were his armor and his defiance against the world. Kurt didn't have his closet to draw upon here, but he did the best he could with what he had, plus he had a bitch glare that rivaled one Santana Lopez. Thus Kurt descended the stairs. Nobody could touch him, especially the jock table full of MacKenzie men having breakfast.

"From all that ruckus, I'd wager there's no one bit of furniture left in one piece," Rupert drawled.

Angus snorted. "Aye but who was punishin' who? Blaine is the one with the black eye and slept in the barn."

Kurt sailed by like the path to the front door was his personal catwalk.

"Let's find out. Kurt," Rupert called out, "there's a seat here for ye, lad!" And the table erupted into knowing chuckles.

Kurt froze, smoothly turning a one-eighty on Rupert Thomas Alexander MacKenzie. "One more word from you," he hissed, "and I'll sew your mouth shut."

Willie snorted out a laugh which he quickly smothered behind a hand. With that, Kurt Hummel left the building.

***

The interminable rent journey finally came to an end and they returned to Castle Leoch just as the air held the cold bite of Fall. Mrs. Fitz welcomed them back warmly one of the few to openly congratulate Kurt and Blaine on their wedding. Kurt forced a smile in return. He barely spoke to Blaine and only when he had to. He could not bring himself to forgive him and maybe that was for the best. Now there was nothing holding him here.

Except the coming of winter.

Blaine was summoned to Colum's study so Kurt retired to his room where he put away his meager belongings and washed and readied for bed.

The door opened and Blaine entered when Kurt was turning down the covers. Blaine went to stand before the fire. He told Kurt that Colum had learned of Dougal's fund raising, had even gotten his hands on the bag of gold. The two brothers had nearly come to blows.

 _Well, let them kill each other_ , Kurt thought resentfully. Then he'd be free to leave. He kept that to himself and instead climbed into bed. "It can't be the first time those two have fought. It'll blow over soon enough, I imagine."

"Aye," Blaine said but didn't sound as if he believed it. After a quiet moment he reached up to untie his neckerchief.

"What do you think you're doing?" Kurt demanded coldly.

"I—"

"Think again." While they were still on the road, Kurt was forced to sleep next to Blaine – under his own blanket! But he sure as hell was not going to share a bed with him now.

"Kurt…" Blaine stood there undecided. "I ken yer still mad about… Ye come from a place where things are easier, I think. Where it's no a matter of life and death if you disobey orders or take matters into your own hands. But it's the hard truth in places and times like these that a light action can have very serious consequences."

Kurt did not explode with anger. He was so done with this that he was past anger. His voice was calm when he said, "You think I don't understand why you did what you did. I do. And, yes, things are different here than where I'm from. Actions here carry life-threatening consequences and there are repercussions for that. I'm living in your world and I should be expected to live by the rules of that world. Nor is it reasonable, I suppose, to expect to be exempt from the punishment that comes from breaking those rules. And that's all fine and well… _until_ you recall that I am not here by my choice. Since I had the misfortune of being caught between you and the British, I have been shot at, knocked unconscious, fixed your shoulder, stopped you from walking into an ambush, forced to be a _guest_ when I have repeatedly said I wanted to go home, dragged into a rebellion that has nothing to do with me but has made me a target of British law, told I must marry or be tortured and killed, and finally captured. _My_ life has been put into jeopardy multiple times. Who do I get to punish for that? Can I expect Dougal to bend over and lift his kilt any time soon?"

Kurt didn't expect an answer and he didn't get one. Blaine was too stunned to speak. "Let me tell you about the rules of my world," Kurt said, adding snidely, "since you asked. Married couples fight. They yell and scream and say hateful, hurtful things. Occasionally they even throw things. But what's _not_ allowed is to hit. You don't hit husbands. You don't hit wives. If you do, they have the right to leave you. If there's something they don't understand, you tell them. When they are trying to tell you something, you listen. You _don't_ use violence to make your point. But as you say, this isn't my world.

"You know what I remember from our wedding? I remember you saying that the wedding night was what we had to do for everyone else but after that, the marriage was what we decided it to be. Emphasis on 'we'. As in you and me together, not you telling me. I also remember you taking that girl's punishment at the Hall. You said you did it because you wanted to spare her the shame of being beaten and everyone knowing it. You did it for a girl you barely knew. But I guess I don't merit that same consideration."

"Kurt—" Blaine choked on his name.

"I want you to go," Kurt said softly.

When the door closed, Kurt pulled the covers over him and gave vent to his emotions.

***

Blaine took Kurt's edict to heart. He hadn't seen Blaine in days, not at mealtimes, not anywhere in the castle or in his room at night. He should be happy. At the very least, Blaine was respecting his wishes. But he wasn't. He hurt.

It was better this way, he told himself. It would make it easier when the time came to leave. And he still had the problem of getting back to Craigh na Dun.

Kurt was up in his room, sewing a new dress for Colum's wife, Letitia. He sat by the fire with several candles burning for light. Nightfall came ever earlier as fall progressed and the days shortened. Kurt wore knitted fingerless gloves for extra warmth.

There was a knock on the door. "Come," Kurt called. It wasn't as if he could keep anyone out as there was no lock on the door.

It was Blaine. Kurt paused in his stitching for a heartbeat before continuing. Blaine hesitantly stepped into the room.

"I… I thought you should know," he began. "Colum and Dougal have mended fences."

"I supposed that's for the best," Kurt commented non-committally. Tensions were rising everywhere in the castle. Whatever argument the brothers were having it was dividing the clan and people were starting to take sides. Just what Kurt needed, to find himself in the middle of a clan civil war.

As the silence stretched on, though, Kurt was compelled to say, "Is that all?"

"No," Blaine said. "What you said… your words stung with the truth of what you said. They've been harder to bear than the scars on my back. I made promises to you and I failed to keep them. I broke faith with ye and you have every right to no trust me now."

He shouldn't have done it. Kurt shouldn't have glanced up at Blaine. Dammit, it was unfair the way he slipped past all Kurt's walls! It was unfair that Blaine wore his heart out in the open for all to see. It was unfair how wrecked he looked standing there. Kurt kept forgetting just how young Blaine was, raised on the importance of honor and a man's word, and devastated that he had failed at both.

"Our lives in the Highlands are steeped in tradition, custom and ritual. Wives obey their husbands. Husbands discipline them when they don't. That's how it was with my father, and his father and on and on and on back. But for you and me, it has to go a different way. I promised you that we would find that way together and then I broke it. And you lashed me with your words to make me understand. And I deserved that. I would make you a new promise, one I canna break or it will mean my life."

Blaine drew his dirk and knelt before Kurt. He held the long dagger by its blade and bowed his head till it touched the pommel. "I swear on the cross of my Lord Jesus, and by the holy iron which I hold that I give you my fealty and pledge you my loyalty. If ever my hand is raised in rebellion against you again, then I ask that this holy iron might pierce my heart."

He turned the dirk's hilt to Kurt, offering it to him. Kurt was stunned. If there was anything that symbolized a Highlander and all that he was, it was his dirk. Nearly every man owned one no matter how poor. They believed the iron of the blade was holy and they swore their most sacred vows on them. Blaine had refused to swear this oath to his own uncle, brother of his mother, but he was making it to him, swearing his life-long fealty to his lord and master.

When Kurt did not move, Blaine lifted heartbroken eyes to him. "Is it not enough, Kurt? That day when you ran, were you running from me? Have I killed all feeling between us?"

Kurt drew in a shaky breath and reached out a hand and placed it over Blaine's heart. "No, you haven't. This feeling… it's love." He could no longer deny it, not to himself or to Blaine. "I love you."

Blaine's breath came out in a rush and his hand came up to cover Kurt's. His thumb brushed his ring on Kurt's finger. "The key to Lallybroch."

"What?"

"Yer ring." Blaine lifted Kurt's hand and kissed the ring on it. "I had the blacksmith fashion your ring from my key. I thought to give my home to you, but Lallybroch isn't my home anymore, it's you. I love you."

With his free hand, Kurt reached to cup the back of Blaine's head to pull him in for a kiss. "Your words drive straight through my heart," Kurt whispered against his lips.

"As do yours," Blaine answered back. He cupped Kurt's face to kiss and keep on kissing him.

Need quickly rose up between them, a need to touch and get as close as possible, to reaffirm the bond that had strained and almost broken. In that need, they tumbled to the floor, pulling off clothes.

Reaching down, Kurt took Blaine's dick into his hand. His name was a groan that was dragged from Blaine's throat as his body arched to him. Kurt rolled him onto his back and leaned over him. He grinned down at him. "You promised your body to me. Is that still true?"

Kurt's hand moved lower past his balls. Blaine's eyes widened and dilated. "Aye," he rasped. "I'm yours."


	13. Confessions

 

Kurt lay face down on the bed, the covers gone completely. Lips pressed against his bare shoulder and lazily began to explore.

"Why aren't you tired?" Kurt mumbled into the bedding.

"I can never be tired of you, _sìthiche_ ," Blaine mouthed between kisses.

Kurt snorted. "Why do you keep calling me English?" he complained. "Am I still an outlander to you?"

"I'm not," Blaine replied placing kisses along his spine now.

"You are! S—" he started but couldn't hope to pronounce it. "Just now."

Blaine chuckled against his skin. " _Sassenach_. _Sassenach_ is the word for English."

"Then what have you been calling me?"

" _Sìthiche_."

"And that is…?"

"The fair folk… ah, fairy and suchlike."

"You're calling me a fairy?" Blaine couldn't possibly know it's double meaning in the 21th century, still….

"Aye. Yer so beautiful. Too beautiful to be of this world."

Oh. A lifetime of ridicule for his looks, his voice, his clothes, his everything left him unprepared for compliments. It did tingly things to his stomach. As much as he wanted to bask in it for a little while, he couldn't let himself be pulled back into forgetting again.

"Blaine," Kurt began. "You know I haven't told you – anyone – the whole truth about me. You never pressured me to tell you and I appreciated that."

Blaine moved away, coming to lie next to him. Kurt turned his head so he could look at him. He searched for the words to explain in a way that wouldn't sound crazy.

"I didn't tell you this because I didn't think you would believe me," Kurt admitted. "Or worse, you would and think me some kind of witch."

"If you say you're telling me the truth, I will believe you," Blaine said looking at him with his earnest eyes.

"You make it sound so simple." Kurt gave a little laugh. "I told the truth when I said I was born in a town called Lima, but it isn't in Pennsylvania. It's in Ohio. It's not a colony, it's a state."

Blaine's eyes narrowed slightly at the foreign word "state" but said nothing. He waited for Kurt to continue.

"Thirty years from now, the colonies across the Atlantic will fight for independence from Britain… and they will win. They form a new country called the United States of America. They will not have a parliament, they will have a congress. They will not have a king, they will have a president. The colonies will become states. They expand west across the continent all the way to the Pacific Ocean forming states as they go until there are fifty of them." Kurt took a breath. "I am not English. I am not a British subject. I am not a colonist. I'm an American. I was born in 1993. My mother died when I was eight and it's been my father and me ever since. In the summer of 2011, we went on holiday to Scotland where my mother's family is from. We were staying in Inverness. I went to the stones of Craigh na Dun and touched the center stone. Don't ask me how because I don't know… but it brought me here. You asked me if my father was alive. He isn't because he hasn't been born yet, but he is, back in my time and I have to get back to him."

Kurt held his breath while he waited for Blaine's reaction. He only looked back at him for several second then whispered something in Gaelic, then began singing. Of all the ways Kurt thought Blaine might react, singing wasn't one of them.

The song was Gaelic and as Blaine sang, he translated the words. " _I am a woman of Balnain. The folk have stolen me over again, the stones seem to say. I stood upon the hill and wind did rise, and the sound of thunder rolled across the land. I placed my hands upon the tallest stone and traveled to a far, distant land where I lived for a time among strangers who became lovers and friends. But one day, I saw the moon came out and the wind rose once more. So I touched the stones and traveled back to my own land and took up again with the man I had left behind_."

It was Kurt who was left incredulous.

"Tis an old song about a man out late on a fairy hill on the eve of Samhain who hears the sound of a woman singing sad and plaintive from the very rocks of the hill," Blaine told him.

"It's happened before?!" Kurt exclaimed. "Someone else has traveled through the stones!" He tried to digest this. "Somebody needs to put a warning label on them!"

"That's why ye've been so keen to get back to Inverness?" Blaine asked. He sat up and moved to the edge of the bed.

Kurt nodded. "Do you… do you believe me?"

"I dinna understand it a bit, but I trust you. I trust there is a truth between us." Blaine swung his feet off the bed to the floor. His back was to Kurt. "You've been trying to get back to the stones. To your home… to your father."

There was a tension in Blaine's back that seemed like anger and Kurt didn't know what to make of it. "Yes."

"And I beat you for it." Blaine was off the bed. He found his shirt on the floor and yanked it back on.

Kurt understood then. Blaine was angry at himself. He paced about the room and stopped in front of the fire. His back still to Kurt. "I'm so very, very sorry."

Kurt got out of bed and went to wrap his arms around him from behind. "Don't…" he whispered. "I told you he was dead. There is no way you could have guessed the truth." Kurt laid his head on Blaine's shoulder. "Just say you will believe me. That will be enough."

The tension eased from Blaine and he covered Kurt's arms with his own. "I will always believe you, sìthiche." Then his mouth quirked up at the corner. "Although it would be a good deal easier if you'd only been a witch."

Kurt chuckled. Blaine turned and pulled Kurt against him and they held each other for a long time before the fire.

***

"Are you sure about this?" Kurt asked for the umpteenth time.

Blaine caught Kurt's face with both hands and kissed him soundly. "Ye want to go home, don't you?" Kurt nodded. "There it is, then," Blaine stated simply. "Up ye go."

Blaine helped Kurt into the saddle before swinging up behind him. As far as everyone at Leoch was concerned, they were going into the village. When Auld Alec asked why they weren't taking two horses, Blaine only winked at the man saying, "Where's the fun in that?"

Being known throughout the entire castle for being disgustingly in love had its advantages.

With temperatures dropping with the coming of winter, no one questioned the many layers of clothing they both wore. Kurt hide a bundle of food under his traveling cloak. Otherwise, they had precious few belongings to sneak out with them.

Blaine stayed on the road to Cranemuir village until they were well out of sight of the castle sentries before turning the horse on their true path. For the first time, Blaine had defied his uncles, not for himself but for Kurt. He left a letter in their room that would be found when they did not return. He thanked Colum for his hospitality in giving them shelter when they needed it but Blaine went on to explain that he could never make a life for himself and Kurt in Scotland, so they were off to the American colonies. Which was true in one sense, if a little misleading in _how_ they meant to do it. If either Colum or Dougal felt the need to chase after them, they would look for them in the wrong direction. Kurt and Blaine were going east, not west toward Glasgow.

What they hadn't counted on was Murtagh, who was waiting for them. Blaine had confided in his godfather that he was leaving with Kurt. "You dinna think I'd let ye go on this mad cap venture on yer own, did ye?" was all he said and that had been that. Murtagh wasn't going to stop them, but ever faithful, he wasn't going to abandon them either.

They lived off the land, catching small animals or fish for their dinner. Kurt and Blaine snuggled close under their cloaks and blankets for warmth in the ever dropping temperatures at night. During the days on the road, Blaine was full of questions. He wanted to know everything about the future.

"And they just stay aloft, like birds?" Blaine wanted to know.

"Not exactly," Kurt chuckled. "Airplane wings don't flap like bird wings. It's more like gliding on air currents."

"And you've ridden in one?"

"That's how my dad and I traveled to Scotland. We crossed the Atlantic in a matter of hours," Kurt explained.

"How high can ye fly?"

"Above the clouds." Kurt found Blaine's sense of wonder at what was for him everyday things amusing. Blaine never doubted anything he told him, never questioned that Kurt was telling him the truth no matter how incredible it sounded. Kurt was touched by the absolute faith Blaine placed in him, as he was when Blaine told him that he would take him to Craigh na Dun so he could go home.

Kurt had stared at Blaine. "You would do that?"

"It's what you want, isn't it?" Blaine had responded. "To go home."

It was. But at the same time he didn't want to leave Blaine and he told him so.

Blaine had been pensive for a moment. "Do ye suppose the stones would work for me? If they brought you here, could they not take me there as well?"

Kurt's heart also leapt out of his chest. It was everything he wanted, but was that fair to ask that of Blaine: to leave the world he knew to travel to a time where he might not fit in? "What about your family, your home in Lallybroch? You would never see them again."

"Aye," Blaine said. "I'd miss them right enough. But not as much as I'd miss you, I think." He went on to talk about how he had fled to France after he escaped from Fort Williams. He hired himself out as a soldier but he was never quite happy there. "I thought it was Scotland, home, that I was missing, but now I'm thinking that wasna it at all. That's when we met. I had just come back and met with Dougal when the British happened on us. I dinna think it was an accident, me coming back to Scotland just when you came through the stones. I think it was you that drew me back. I think it was you that I was missing."

Kurt's silly romantic heart wanted to believe the same thing. "That's… When I came here with my dad, I was feeling so alone… like I didn't have anyone to turn to." Was it possible the stones had brought Kurt here because the thing he was missing was Blaine?

He drew Kurt in close. "This feeling between us… it's no usual. It's strong and deep…"

"And crosses time?" Kurt finished.

"Aye, why not?" Where Kurt was full of concern, Blaine was certain. "Do ye not feel it too?"

Of course he did. And so they made their plans.

***

Blaine went down to a stream to clean their catch of the day while Murtagh built the fire.

Kurt had waited for days for Murtagh to say something. The man never looked at Kurt except to glower at him, but then again, that was the man's only expression.

"I know you don't like me," Kurt started. "You don't have any reason to trust me, but I love Blaine."

Murtagh never looked up, just poked at the beginnings of a fire with a stick. "I know ye do."

Kurt pressed on. "You think I must be—"

"Ye ken my mind so well, ye can speak for me," Murtagh broke in.

Kurt stopped at that rebuke. "Well someone has to speak for you since, God knows you never do!" he snapped.

Murtagh added another branch to the fire before sitting back. "Do I think Blaine is a lovesick pup running after you to touch magic stones to… God knows where or Devil knows where?"

Kurt nodded.

"Aye, Blaine is love-struck. I expect if ye told him yer from the moon, he'd believe you." Murtagh paused for several long moments. "The Church says it's a sin for two men to lie together." Kurt's heart sank, but it was asking too much for anyone to accept what Kurt and Blaine were daring to attempt. "But the land is older than the Church."

Kurt wasn't expecting that.

"Before there were priests, there were Druids. They knew the land and its mysteries. The stones of Craigh na Dun may be older than the Druids," Murtagh said pensively. "There was always something different about you. I thought it was because you were from the colonies but now I ken it was more."

This was the most Kurt had heard the stoic man say, possibly ever. Murtagh's words harkened to something that Kurt was slowly coming to realize about Scotland and about the people themselves. The country seemed to have one foot in the present and the other foot in the past, ancient ways shrouded in archaic mystery like the mists that shrouded the hills and mountains. In that sense, a part of Scotland was never conquered. Foreign armies might invade and occupy, newer Faiths might take hold, but always there was some corner of the Scottish heart that stubbornly held to the old beliefs even while yielding to change. By accepting that Kurt came from the Stones, Murtagh believed his union with Blaine was sanctioned by a power older than the Church, superseding its dictums.

"Blaine is like his mother," Murtagh continued. "He has her eyes, her hair, her heart. She had the sweetest smile. Would warm a man to the backbone just to see it. Blaine's smile is just as sweet."

Murtagh reached into his sporran, a pouch worn about the waist that Kurt secretly thought of as the Scottish fanny pack. He pulled out two large bracelets, whitish and curved into a circle but was not joined at the ends but tipped with ornate metal caps.

"I made these from the tusks of a boar I killed on a hunt," Murtagh explained. Kurt couldn't imagine how big the animal must have been, to produce tusks large enough to encircle a person's wrist. "...to give to Ellen MacKenzie and ask for her hand. But Colum promised her to Brian Fraser, laird of his clan."

This admission stunned Kurt. He suspected that Murtagh rarely shared personal information, but here he was telling Kurt that he had loved Blaine's mother. It explained so much. He could not be with her, so he watched over her son.

Murtagh stood and came over to Kurt. "She would want you to have them." When Kurt would have begged off at receiving too precious a gift, Murtagh grabbed Kurt's hand and placed the polished bone bracelets in his hand. "I have kept Blaine safe, but only you have made him happy. He's never truly had a place he could call his own even before he became a wanted man. In Lallybroch he was in his brother's shadow. You are his home now. I've done all I can, you must watch over each other now."

An ache constricted his throat and Kurt could only nod. It suddenly occurred to him that Murtagh was a great deal like Burt, direct and honest, plain spoken, didn't always say much but when he did, it could floor you. The quiet man had rendered Kurt speechless.

***

When they came at last to the foot hill of Craigh na Dun, Murtagh chose to stay with the horses at the camp they set up.

"Here, lad," Murtagh said and held out a small bag of coins. He cut Blaine off when he tried to refuse. "Take it. I'll stay here for a day and a night. If ye dinna come back, I'll sell your horse. So it's yer money."

Blaine threw his arms around the taciturn man who had been his steadfast friend and ally. Kurt surprised the man by hugging him next, leaving him a great deal flustered. Blaine held out his hand and Kurt took it.

The walk up the hill was wordless. Knots in Kurt's stomach tightened. What if the stones wouldn't take Blaine? They reached the crest of the hill. The gray stone slabs were a few feet away standing among a cluster of trees.

Kurt swallowed hard and they crossed the distance and entered the circle. There it was the silent sentinel, the center stone. They stood before it.

"Is this the one?" Blaine asked.

"Yes."

"So, what did you do last time?"

"I really didn't do anything. I heard this buzzing sound, and I just touched the stone." They stared at the stone, frozen to the spot.

"We should… we should get on with it," Blaine said finally.

Kurt agreed. "It's why we came."

They took a step forward then Kurt grasped Blaine's hand. When Blaine glanced at Kurt, he said, "Just in case. Don't want to get separated."

Blaine grinned. He lifted Kurt's hand and kissed it. "I love you, _sìthiche_."

It always made Kurt a little dizzy whenever he said that. "I love you too." He took a breath. "Together."

They both reached out their free hands.

Blaine exclaimed, "Och, I hear it, buzzing like--"

***

Kurt was lying on his back in the grass, light pressing on his closed eyes. Blaine!

He snapped open his eyes to the blue sky above. He turned his head and there was Blaine next to him still holding his hand. He turned to look at Kurt. Whatever else had happened they were still together.

Kurt leaned over and kissed Blaine who grinned against his lips. They scrambled to their feet.

"Did it work?" Blaine asked looking around but little seemed different.

Kurt tugged on Blaine's hand and ran for the trail. He cried out and hugged Blaine. "It worked, it worked!" He pointed at the trail marker. "That's for the tourists!"

"What's a tourist?"

Kurt just laughed and pulled Blaine down the trail. They ran all the way to Mrs. Baird's house. It was just in sight when the front door opened and a man came out. He was heading for the car in the driveway.

"Dad!" Kurt called out. He dropped Blaine's hand and sprinted toward the man in the baseball cap who turned. "DAD!"

Kurt threw himself into Burt's arms and didn't let go. "Kurt? Where've you been? I was just on my way to the police station again."

"I'm sorry, Dad," Kurt mumbled into his shoulder. "I never meant to worry you."

Mrs. Baird came out at the commotion and gasped, bringing her hands over her mouth. It was a moment before she noticed Blaine who was standing back, giving father and son their space.

"Who are you?" Mrs. Baird asked, looking him up and down.

He was about the same age as Kurt, his dark curls shaggy around his handsome face. He wore his blue wool coat over a brown waistcoat and his kilt and worn leather boots. But at his waist was his dirk dagger and his sword with its strap over his shoulder. His sword hand rested on the hilt in casual habit.

"Oh," Kurt exclaimed and he pulled out of his father's embrace. He led Burt over to the Scottish boy. "This is my father, Burt Hummel."

Blaine bowed as he did on their wedding day. "Your servant, sir."

Burt stared hard at the boy.

"Dad, this is Blaine Devon Alexander MacKenzie Fraser," Kurt introduced and then took a deep breath. "My husband."

Burt's head snapped to Kurt, then to Blaine, and then back to Kurt. "You have some explaining to do, son."

 

 

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dblmalfunction's prompt was a simple one: Klaine crossover with Outlander series.
> 
> It left me with a lot of latitude to decide how to write it. I considered writing Kurt as a WW2 medic but chose to introduce canon Kurt into the Outlander world. Canon Blaine shares a lot of character traits with Jaime. And Blaine is the anglicized Scottish name Bláán meaning yellow. Possibly originally given to someone with blond hair.


End file.
